


Isušena Kaljuža

by MarionetteFtHJM



Series: Goth Himbo Geralt archetype fics [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Assassin's Creed Fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Background Relationships, Barebacking, Biting, Ciri feels, Dirty Talk, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual ep 6 fix-it, Filthy!, Found Family, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, I take heavily from the AC universe, Jaskier and Yen are BEST friends, Jaskier saves the day, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, Jaskier | Dandelion-centric, M/M, Mild D/s, Minor Character Death, Murder, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Parents Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining, Riding, SMUT!, Sort Of, Topping from the Bottom, as for the smut, assassin!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 39,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22643497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarionetteFtHJM/pseuds/MarionetteFtHJM
Summary: "Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent, but hesitate not to deliver justice to the guilty.” Master Maeve told him the first time he failed a mission, convinced that they’d had the wrong man. She'd bestowed upon him a lot of good words of advice that day, plenty of valuable pearls.But none of the wisdom in the world could have prepared him for what Destiny had in store for him. Namely, Geralt of Rivia, Witcher extraordinaire, the only point of uncertainty in his life from the moment they’d met in the tavern in Posada.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Goth Himbo Geralt archetype fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1609732
Comments: 173
Kudos: 2267
Collections: Fave Stories of Queixo





	1. Na Dnu

**Author's Note:**

> Okay look this started as me wanting to write assassin jaskier murdering some people and then it just developed into some bs where i basically retell the events with Jaskier as an assassin and then add some more bs into it. There'll be a chapter 2 with a fix-it aspect of course but for now it's like yuh these things happened and then the next chapter will be more ship oriented  
> if you want more pining check out A Broken Pot Can Still Hold Water and if you want soft fluff and smut check out All That Glitters is Gold (in the same goth himbo geralt series but not related plot-wise)  
> So bare with me and stay strong! Hope you like this ish!

_“We keep to the shadows so that_ they _may live in the light.”_ His grandfather, Master Aerest, used to say. It was a mantra drilled into him from the tender age of three; repeated so often and so insistently that he can see the words every time he closes his eyes and hear them every time the room around him is too silent.

 _“Always hide where they’d least expect you to.”_ His mother would say every time he did something stupid, got noticed for being too _different_ – too _skilled_.

 _“Always keep the Creed in your mind’s eye, Julian.”_ His older brother would remind him when his hubris threatened to catch up with his careless ways.

 _“Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent, but hesitate not to deliver justice to the guilty.”_ Master Maeve told him the first time he failed a mission, convinced that they’d had the wrong man.

But none of the wisdom in the world could have prepared him for what Destiny had in store for him. Namely, Geralt of Rivia, Witcher extraordinaire, the only point of uncertainty in his life from the moment they’d met in the tavern in Posada.

* * *

It’s been month since he’d been back at the _Academy_ and this mission he’s on is taking longer than any of them had expected. He’s strumming the notes to a song he’s not feeling particularly good about today and his dissatisfaction is reflected back at him by the audience that throws rotten vegetables and stale bread in his direction.

Posada is a shithole; dirty and muddy and as far removed from the stone streets of Oxenfurt as it gets, but it’s where his search has lead him so far. The men he needs to find are out further – Dol Blathanna, a dangerous area he’s not willing to venture out into on his own despite the information he’s seeking being there. He needs an escort, he’d decided early, and he has the money, of course, but none of these village idiots are brave enough to come with him. The mountain range is a veritable maze of rock formations and hostile beings trying to tear your throat out, Jaskier might be _skilled_ but he can’t fight a horde on his own; he is one man after all. 

He finishes the verse, dodging a small metal cup flying in his direction but lets the bread and the tomatoes hit him despite being capable of easily evading those as well. He bows mockingly.

“Yes, yes. What a lovely audience.” He grumbles, wiping tomato juice from his lute. He’s about to start another song despite the booing of the crowd when the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. Something dangerous enters the tavern and he turns just enough that he can see the looming figure out of the corner of his eye. He plays another song, one a little better but no-less badly received by the patrons of the tavern than the previous one. 

And during his performance, he’s too aware of the presence in the back of the tavern. He can’t shake the fascination coursing through him about this stranger that stands out like poppy in a rye field in the dark room. Despite all of his self-preservation instincts warning him against approaching the figure, he sets a course of a few long strides towards him. He meets the startlingly golden eyes in a dead stare, surprised at how it shakes him to his core. He recovers quickly, though. 

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and... _brood_.” It’s out of his mouth faster than his brain can stop the words. And then he – much to his own mortification – _keeps talking_.

He pesters the man until the large figure stands up in a hurry to get away from him. It’s then that his brain catches up with the rest of him – the rest of him that had been too _fascinated_ with the dangerous figure to notice that the man had pale silver (bordering on white) hair and two swords strapped to his back.

“Oh,” He gasps to himself and then a little louder unintentionally, “Oh, I know who you are!” He runs after the man like an idiot because he’d just found a treasure chest in the middle of a crypt of brittle bones. “You’re Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken.” He says proudly, preening at his own ingeniousness. He knows Geralt of Rivia, there’s barely a soul in the Academy that doesn’t know about the Butcher and his exploits. Though, the histories at the Academy are rather sparse when it comes to Witchers in general so, giddy with the opportunity, he hopes that he can fill them up a little on his next visit. 

The man’s shoulders tense as he calls his name but the Witcher keeps walking, “Fuck off.” The Butcher walks over to the stables and untetheres a brown mare from one of the stalls. The horse protests as she’s steered away from the through filled with fresh water but the Witcher doesn’t stop tugging.

 _This is your chance,_ he thinks to himself happily. The Butcher can escort him into Dol Blathanna and he can then maybe pester him into talking about some of his hunts. He’d seen the notice on the board in the village square – a _Devil_ is terrorizing the village. It resides in the mountains and the Witcher is going to go get rid of said _Devil_. He definitely has to follow the Witcher if he is to have any chance of threading the mountainside to finish his mission. So he follows the man and seemingly can't stop talking. Maybe it’s the giddiness he feels as he gazes upon that wide frame and maybe it’s because Geralt makes him both nervous and excited. Either way, he’s prattling on insistently and making the Witcher more annoyed by the second.

He earns himself a punch to the gut for his troubles. It doesn’t hurt as much as he pretends it does; he’s taken his fair share of kicks and fists and Geralt had definitely held back as well. But, he keeps following the Witcher anyway and Geralt tells him to fuck off only twice more before they’re making their way towards where this _Devil_ is supposed to be.

His hackles raise as soon as they step around the bend and he stops even before Geralt does. The Witcher pauses a few steps in front of him, nostrils flaring and all of the muscles in his back tensing, prepared for a fight.

Jaskier loosens his limbs, falls back into his role of the Bard – unassuming and naive. He passes Geralt foolishly like any other civilian would, knowing that he’s putting himself in the direct line of whatever is in the bushes ready to attack. He waxes poetic about danger and adventure and his next ballad like it matters in the long run and takes the rock to the forehead like he’s paid to do it. He goes down, slows his pulse and breathing, doing his best to imitate a state of unconsciousness as to not rouse suspicion. He’s grateful that his mother had drilled this technique into him as a child. Playing dead never seemed honourable to him but she was right in the end, much like she always is. It took him a while to perfect this method back at the Academy. He never thought that he’d have to use it but here he is now, being carried over the shoulder of a woman with pointy ears and pretending to be out cold.

He groans inwardly, elves, of course. It’s not ideal. This could potentially make his mission both easier and more difficult. Difficult because – well, they’re being tied to each other, back to back with a guard watching over them. And easier because, if they do get out of this somehow – without him revealing what exactly he is – he’ll be able to negotiate a deal with them. They surely know when something is amiss in their area and maybe they’ll be willing to help.

However, he doesn’t do much to put himself in their good graces – which is _unfortunately_ a part of _Jaskier the Bard_ ’s persona. Where _Julian_ is clever and cunning, _Jaskier_ is loud and unthinking, _stupidly mouthy._

“Leave off! He’s just a bard!” He feels Geralt’s voice rumbling against his back as he mourns the loss of his lute. He’s tempted to slice through the ropes with his hidden blade just so that he can take down the elf that broke his precious instrument – it was a gift from his Grandmother. But he waits, because Geralt is talking up a storm. And he’s _reasoning_ with Filavandrel, the King of the elves, the banished beast that everyone fears and looks upon with derision. Out of all the things he’d expected from the Witcher, _this_ wasn’t it. Murder and mayhem? Perhaps. Reason and sound logic? Not at all. 

And most wonderful of all, the elves _let them go –_ just like that, with a new lute for Jaskier to sing his stories with _._ Though, it’s not much of a story. It wouldn’t make for a good ballad at all, and he says so to Geralt – receives a scathing glare in return that he elects to ignore.

“Well, it’s been lovely my large friend but I do assume you’re rather busy. I’ll leave you to it.” He expects that to be it, for Geralt to just ignore him and be on his way. He strums his lute, humming a tune to the song that will clear Geralt of Rivia’s name – the _White Wolf,_ they’ll know him from the moment the song is sung the first time.

“Hm.” Geralt grunts and it sounds slightly inquisitive so Jaskier pauses, turning around to regard the man on the horse with a raised eyebrow.

“What, something else to graciously add to the creative process? If you’d spare more details about some other adventure or tragedy, I’d gladly listen – maybe jot it down while I'm at it. Alas, somehow I doubt you’re willing to talk as much as I can listen and write.” He taps his chin, smiling innocently.

“You know your way back to Posada, yes?” Geralt asks instead, oddly considerate and Jaskier tilts his head.

“I’ve got a good memory; I can find my way back. Thank you for worrying, my friend. Until next time!” He walks backwards, waving lightly as Geralt grunts. He smiles to himself as he hears Geralt moving away on Roach. 

“Not likely.” The Witcher mutters under breath, sounds adamant and irritated but Jaskier _knows_. He knows that they’ll meet again like he knows when a storm is nearing or when there’s ample opportunity for a covert murder. So he knows that they’ll meet again, and that they’ll keep meeting whether Geralt likes it or not. Because while Geralt is the bane of beasts, Julian is the bane of beastly men.

So he leaves; walks the path until he’s sure that Geralt’s Witcher-y senses can’t hear him anymore and then he veers off the road and starts climbing. It takes a while but he finds what he’s looking for eventually and on his own.

He’s at a good vantage point, up on the mountain overlooking the camp situated in a small valley between two low peaks of the rocky sierra they’re on. He watches the men, five of them – armed with sharp swords and crossbows – milling around between large crates and barrels. It’s obvious that the man he’s looking for is not here despite his hopes, but one of these people certainly knows where that particular man _is_.

He stows his new lute into a small crevice and pulls the darker clothes out of his bag. A simple dark brown shirt and pants with leather padding, the overcoat with the hood that is his uniform. He wishes he had the privilege of the long, Swallow-tailed robes that his Masters wore at the Academy regularly. But he’s a travelling bard, he has to dress for the part – and when he’s not a bard, he can’t afford to stand out with clinking swords and swishing fabrics. He straps the knife to his thigh and puts the twin daggers to his hips. He checks the hidden blade, pops it out and back in with a near-silent sound of iron. Satisfies that he’s well-prepared, he settles down.

He hides and waits until nightfall. The torches at the campsite get lit, a fire in the middle of the encampment is started by the men. He waits a little more, stands up to shake out his limbs. Ignoring the way his legs have gone numb at his silent vigil, he watches as the men remain oblivious to his presence. They take turns watching out for trouble but that’s fine, Jaskier can dispatch of them easily enough when they’re separated.

He’s silent as the gentle breeze as he makes his way down towards the camp. He’s pinpointed the man in charge as the one sleeping in the tent with the overhang hemmer with filigreed fabric casting a shadow onto the largest of the tents’ door.

He makes it down without anyone noticing him, hiding behind one of the large crates containing variously sized chest filled with pilfered treasures. He casts a second glance around the campsite and notices that he’s entirely missed a cave with bars covering its entrance. It’s situated below where he’d been perched so he couldn’t have seen it – he still feels a little _inadequate_ about having missed it, though.

He shakes the feeling off and goes for the first guard. He waits for the man to get closer to the crate before he grabs him with a hand covering his mouth and pops the blade into the side of his neck. He drags the guard behind the crate and leaves him there to bleed out. In a similar fashion, he dispatches of the rest until he finds himself in front of the largest tent.

He blends into the shadows, his hood covering his eyes and casting the rest of his face into the darkness; he slips inside and has the man in a headlock with a dagger pressed to his neck before the man can even truly come awake.

“Now, no use in screaming, they’re all dead.” He tutts, pressing the dagger closer to the man’s jugular.

“Who are you?! What do you want?” The man struggles but it’s useless, even though he’s bigger physically than Jaskier, he has him in a position where the man can get no leverage to try and escape.

“Who I am is not important. What I want, on the other hand, is. Where’s the Viscount of Burbery? I paid him a little visit recently and he was out. And I need to find him _urgently_. So you’re kindly going to share this information with me.” He nicks the man’s skin lightly and the man hisses.

“Why should I tell you? You’re going to kill me either way!” The man raises his voice, strains against him with all his might uselessly.

“Because you can either die slowly or quickly depending on your answer.” He hisses, getting tired of the man’s pointless reluctance.

The man goes limp in his hold, sighing. “He’s in Ban Gleann, the rotten bastard. Knew he’d do me in.”

“Thank you for your cooperation.” He slits the man’s throat, pushing him away before the blood can get to his clothes. It never feels good, taking someone’s life like this. But it’s what he does best and it’s what he’s been taught - that these men rape and pillage, steal and murder and nobody does anything about it so it falls to him to exact justice.

He shakes out his limbs and unclenches his fingers from their grip on the dagger. He wipes the blade on the side of the tent and picks up a torch. He makes his way over to the cave and puts the fire to the bars. He grunts as scared eyes meet him. Of-fucking-course.

“Gods,” He sighs and searches the dead men for the keys. He finds them on the man he killed first and he opens the bars. The Dwarfs inside start standing up slowly. They’ve seen what he’d done here tonight and they’re rightfully wary. But he’s not here for them, he’s here for the information he’d gotten and now he’s going to set them free.

“Come on, let me get the shackles off.” He motions for them to approach and they do. He helps them out of the cave and they look around warily. “You’re free to go.”

“We don't know where. We don't know where we even are!” One of them spits angrily, kicking the dead guard uselessly.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Stay here, I’ll be back by morning. There’s food in the big tent and water in some of the barrels.”

He hikes back up the mountain and picks up the lute and the bag of clothes his has. He finds his way down to where the main road is and then deeper into the other side of the mountains where he remembers Filavandrel’s troupe of Elves is. He needs their help after all and he hopes that they’ll be amendable.

A knife to his throat and he pauses, hands raised in surrender. There’s an elf in front of him and the one behind him tightens his hold on his wrist where he’s pressing one of his arms to the small of his back. He heard them coming, so it’s not a surprise, but he’s not about to fight the ones that can help him.

The elf behind him tugs his hood back and the male in front of him sighs. “You again, lark.”

“Funny story, that.” He grins, friendly and innocent as ever.

“Come on then,” The elf in front of him, _Raestel_ if he remembers well, motions for the one behind him to release him.

“Bard,” Filavandrel eyes him and his getup. “Or, perhaps not. I didn’t think there were any Academies left.”

“There aren’t. Not officially, no.” He shrugs.

“Why have you returned?” The King questions, looking very tired and drained, a King of dead land and a starving people.

“I need your help. I assume you know why _I'm_ _here_.” He motions down to his grab and Filavandrel’s eyes light up minutely.

“The encampment. They’re gone?” The Elf King leans forward.

He nods. “Gone indeed. But now there’re about twelve Dwarfs that don't know where they are or how to get back to where they need to be. The encampment was a place to stash smuggled goods before they hit transit to wherever they sold it. There’s food and drink that you can take from there. Trinkets and riches that can be traded in the village, all yours to keep. Just get them somewhere safe.”

Filavandrel takes another careful look at him like he’s trying to decide if Jaskier is lying or not. “Fascinating, little lark. There’s much more to you than we originally thought. You hide it well.”

“Well, it _is_ the job.” He shrugs, slightly uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

“We’ll help them.” Filavandrel turns to look at Raestel, “Take five men and go with him. Assess the bounty and report back.”

So he leads them towards the encampment, strumming his lute and getting them to help with the new song he’s composing. Having feedback is always great and by the end of their trek, the elves are singing with him. He has a good feeling about this song. It will definitely help clear up Geralt’s name.

“I'm taking a chest with me to Posada as compensation to the village. Hopefully this can help them replenish their pantries.” He puts the chest of coin and rings and jewels into his bag and Raestel nods.

“Have a safe trip, bard.” The elf waves him off.

“Enjoy the bounty, Elfling.” He smirks, dodging out of the way as someone chucks a rock in his direction.

Before he enters Posada, he stops to change back into his silks. The soft fabrics are gentle against his skin and he sighs. “Well, onwards we go, I suppose.”

He drops the treasure off with the owner of the tavern where he’d met the Witcher, claiming that Geralt had taken back the treasure from when he’d slain the beast and sent Jaskier back with it before going on his way. The tavern owner lets him pick a ring from the box as compensation and he chooses a golden one with a yellow jewel in the middle of it – eerily similar in colour to Geralt’s eyes – and leaves.

No rest for the wicked, but no rest for those who look to bring them down either.

* * *

His mother had tried to explain to him once, why he just _knows_ things instinctually. She’d called it a gift from the Old Ones but Jaskier thought it was something more sinister than some gift from the gods.

He’d spent most of his childhood trying to get over the fact that he might be partially a beast. Because – because he knows things no mortal man should know. He knows when ill-intent is near, he sees as far as a hawk does, can hear better than any human, too. _It’s passed down through generations_ , she’d said, but she didn’t have it – despite that, it didn’t stop her from becoming a master of the craft. Her father, however, had _it_. Master Aerest always seemed like he was as old as time itself but maybe that’s because Julian had been so young back then. He used to be scared of the man, too, but he’d been awed by his skill. He seemed to know everything and yet the Master would never indulge his ponderings about their _gifts._

Master Maeve tried to goad him into accepting his gifts, into accepting that he’ll always know when men were bad and when women festered with violent rage; when poison threatened to take lives or when a bow was strung in his direction. And he has, he’s accepted it. It doesn’t stop him from wondering about it, though. About how he knows things like the fact that the man he seeks, Viscount of Burbery, is in one of the houses on the other side of city or the fact that he knows Geralt is hunkered down in Ban Gleann for the night in one of their inns. He wonders but no-one provides answers.

He perks up as his _vague horse-shitty senses of knowing_ pick up the Witcher’s presence. He, once again, despite all of his instincts screaming at him not to, sets a course for the inn connected to the Three Coins tavern. This is where his new song will debut. He grins to himself and avoids a stumbling drunkard with flailing limbs trying to find his way home. It’s still too light outside to exact his mission so he has the time for it.

One song can’t hurt, right?

He enters the tavern boisterously, clapping his hands and drawing as much attention to himself as possible. The patrons are already lively; a man playing the harpsichord in the corner has kept them well entertained. It’s surprisingly a neat establishment with a little dais in the said corner set for the performers. He grins at the other musician and turns to the wider audience, pretending that he doesn’t feel Geralt’s eyes on him.

“Oh, for how lucky you all are to have been brought here today, to witness the roots of one of the most well-loved epics you’ll ever hear. I’ve travelled for months,” He launches into his speech, capturing every ear and eye in the room. “On the road, relentless, trying to find inspiration. Facing off against the perils that the path brought, just so that I can find that one ray of sunshine that will grace my hand and bestow upon me the wits and _heart_ with which I will be able to then _bestow upon you_ , my dear people, the song of the century.”

“Sing already, wretch!” Someone jeers from the crowd and the patrons riot. Jaskier takes a perfunctory bow and takes out his lute. From the moment the first notes are strummed, the crowd is captivated. The lyrics aren’t as important as the tune but what matters most is the chorus and the energy of the delivery. And he feels _good_ about his one. He feels like it will be remembered even after he passes – whenever that may be.

Someone in the tavern tosses the first coin and the rest follow gladly. Jaskier is surprised by the amount that lands at his feet and he shoots the other musician on the stage a smug grin as the man glares at him.

“Thank you! Thank you all! Spread the word and, of course.” He picks up a copper coin and thumbs at it precariously. “Toss a coin to your Witcher, as well.” He meets Geralt’s eye, flinging the coin across the tavern only for the Witcher to snatch it out of the air.

“Now, this was but a taste of my capabilities! I _am_ for hire but not tonight, I'm afraid.” He yawns, leaning against the wall next to the tavern’s owner. “You’ll be able to find me in the inn.” He winks at the man and saunters away, slinging his lute over shoulder and whistling as he leaves. As he does so, he hears one of the barmaids gather the coins from the ground and place them into a bag. He catches a glimpse of her giving the little purse to Geralt and the Witcher looking shocked to receive Jaskier’s payment.

He’s walking slowly, fully intending to let the Witcher catch up to him.

“That was shit.” Geralt thrusts the coin purse in front of him and he chuckles.

“They seemed to like it well enough.” He swats the hand away and enjoys the incredulous and _offended_ look that crosses the Witcher’s face. “It’ll catch on.”

“Like a disease.” Geralt pulls the purse back when he fails to take it, putting it into the bag hanging from his shoulder.

“Ah, yes. Not many are affected by it but many have heard about it – I’ll take it.” He shrugs. It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. But – it _would_ put him at ease if people were trying to kill the Witcher less when he’s not there to convince them otherwise.

“Hm.” Geralt hums, still suspiciously following Jaskier as he winds them down a path and towards the part of city he needs to be in. He should shake the Witcher’s presence but Jaskier enjoys the brooding of the large figure by him – it’s oddly comforting.

“And, _hopefully_ , that good word spread around will help you get more jobs. You’re here for one, yes? What is it this time? A wraith? A cockatrice? A wyvern? Ooh, perhaps a striga, that should be a fun one to write about!” He snaps his fingers, for all intents and purposes looking like he’d just been crowned king.

Geralt’s grunt is a little more intense now and the Witcher stops. “You’re not coming.”

“Aw! But, Geralt!” He whines, clutching his hands closer to his chest. “How will I write a follow-up hit to _Toss A Coin?!_ You’re sure as all hells not willing to spare words for detail! _”_

“Make something up.” Geralt growls; finally realizing that he’d been following Jaskier away from the inn and the tavern, he turns to walk away.

“Catch you later, then, Geralt!” He calls after the Witcher, unnecessarily loud and obnoxious just to see the Witcher wince at his volume. He snickers to himself and ducks into an alleyway.

He spends the rest of the evening surveying the area and looking for possible ways of approach on the house’s exterior. He plays a few songs at the little city square, earns some coins and watches carefully for the Viscount to appear. He thought that he’d be able to catch the man in his house but the man leaves for the city brothel as soon as the night settles and Jaskier sighs.

He returns to the inn to get a room and set his things aside. He dons his darker outfit and checks his weapons as is his routine. He locks the door and props a chair under the doorknob just in case and then slips out the window. He clambers up onto the roof, dodging behind chimneys and jumping from balcony to balcony and generally avoiding the cobblestoned streets on principle.

He slips into one of the rooms in the brothel – thankfully unoccupied – and sneaks out into the hall. It’s – well, much like any other brothel, loud with noise and rank with the stench of sex. He wrinkles his nose and listens for the stuttering beat of Viscounts heart – a medical condition he’d noticed earlier that’s a dead giveaway. He locates it in the third room from where he’s standing in the shadows. There’s another presence in there, an _employee_ of the brothel he assumes, that he’ll have to pay off handsomely for their silence.

He rolls his shoulders and goes for it.

The Viscount of Burbery is a vile man. He’s commandeered troupes of bandits across the land for the last three years – ordering them to pillage and steal from innocent merchants, townhouses and villagers. He’d recently taken an interest in smuggling slaves, propelling himself to the top of the Brotherhood’s _priorities_ list. Julian had been tracking the man down for the last five months, the first mission he’d been sent to this far inland. He usually prefers sticking close to Oxenfurt and the coast. The weather was much more pleasant and the people much less gruff and cynical there. But when duty calls, he answers and where his grandfather sends him, he goes.

And right now _duty_ was taking it up the arse from the whore that was apparently very skilled. He tilts his head as the Viscount – a man in his thirties, conventionally handsome, one-meter-eighty tall – whimpers. It feels bad killing a man when he’s in the throes of pleasure and at his most vulnerable but – well, bane of bad men and all that.

He approaches silently, looming just by the woman’s shoulder until she notices him and then stops what she was doing, momentarily petrified. Her eyes well up with tears but no sound escapes her as he brings a finger to his own lips to keep it that way.

“Aye, why’d you-” The Viscount trails off as she starts up her rhythm again just like Jaskier indicates. He’s already tracked the man’s troupes down and gotten rid of them; so the top of the food chain was all that was left.

He slips his left hand along the man’s neck, trailing it up to cup the man’s cheek as he sits down next to the pillow and against the headboard.

“Hello, darling.” He purrs, his other hand coming up with the dagger and pressing it into the side of the man’s throat as the man opens his eyes in alarm.

“What-” A horrified gasp and the man starts struggling. His grip is too strong and the dagger is too insistent against tender skin previously bruised so the man doesn’t squirm too far away.

“Now, who would have thought?” He nods briefly at the woman still weeping and kneeling on the bed behind the Viscount, the wooden appendage still lodged inside the man. “Well, either way, I'm not going to judge.” His brother always told him he talked too much before he did the actual killing. But – he liked to let his missions know why he was doing this and that always required a speech.

“You know what you’ve done. I’ve come for payment.” He tilts the man’s head back, meeting the wide, hazel eyes.

“I have money – I have goods and I have-” The man babbles but Julian shakes his head.

“The only payment I require is in blood. Your men have paid their dues, now it’s your turn.” His tone is low and calm and the man closes his eyes.

“You – you’re the one that’s been killing the troupes.” The Viscount lets out through clenched teeth and he hums.

“You shouldn’t have gone into the slave business. Maybe you would have lived to see another railing.” He presses the dagger through the man’s neck with great force and tugs it out quickly. The woman whimpers, the Viscount gurgles and falls limp on the bed. Blood pours out of him in streams and Julian levers himself off the bed.

He finds the man’s coat and digs out the heavy coin purse. He holds it out for the woman. “As soon as I leave, scream as loud as you can.” He instructs her and she nods shakily, tucking the coin purse under the bed.

He ducks out of the window again, followed by her scream and the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs. He retraces his steps back to the inn and slips in through the window he’d left open for himself earlier.

He’s managed to strip down to his breeches and managed to wipe his dagger off when there’s an insistent knock on the door. He lifts his head and listens – two heart beats, so far apart in rhythm that he’d get worried if the person is dying if he didn’t know it was the Witcher.

He tugs the chair away and unlocks the door; he peers out into the Witcher’s unsettlingly glowing eyes.

“Geralt! What a surprise! What brings you to my chambers this fine evening?” He puts on a charming smile.

“I smelled blood.” The Witcher says in explanation and Jaskier curses himself for foolishly forgetting Geralt’s enhanced senses.

“I nicked myself shaving.”

Geralt eyes his face critically. “There’s no wound.”

“There’s more than one place to shave on a man’s body, Geralt.” He winks as the Witcher’s eyes widen. “Anything else or may I return to my duties.”

“Uh. No, goodnight.” The Witcher turns stiffly and goes to his own room that is two doors down.

He chuckles to himself, “Silly man.” He hears Geralt’s footsteps faltering and knows that the Witcher’s hearing is still focused on him. “Silly, but handsome.” He adds with a hum just because he can.

In the morning, he picks up his things, awake before Geralt is, and goes down to wait at the well near the gate of the city. There’s a hush over the city that he’s well familiar with. It’s always eerily silent the night after a – well, _the night after._

He overhears the scuffle as the people who knew the Viscount mill around in the tavern in the early morning, discussing what had happened during the night.

 _“Straight through the neck.”_ One of them says, not sounding particularly mournful.

 _“And of the whore, she didn’t see anything?_ ” The man in conversation with the first asks.

_“Not a thing, says it was over before she could blink.”_

_“A right ghost, that, then. Good riddance_.” The first man scoffs and Jaskier smiles to himself. Another job well done.

He hums a tune that’s been going through his head since last night and ignores the sound of Geralt’s lumbering footsteps. The Witcher is particularly heavy-footed this morning, he probably hasn’t slept well.

“I hear there’s been a murder in town, you don’t happen to have had anything with that?” He turns to meet the other’s eye and Geralt seems taken aback by the question.

“I kill monsters, not men.” The Witvher grumbles.

And Julian can’t help himself when he grins at the Witcher harmlessly and says, “Some monsters _are_ men, are they not?”

“Hm,” Geralt seems a little _wrong-footed_ this morning, too. Nostrils flaring like he’s trying to scent Jaskier for something specific, like he could possibly smell the _dishonesty_ on him. But Jaskier holds a great deal of pride in the tricks of the trade that he knows. He douses himself in inoffensive scents as often as he can and he knows that Geralt’s not getting anything from him.

“Where to next, my noble friend?” Jaskier hops off the edge of the well, joining Geralt and Roach in their walk.

“Hagge.” Geralt pauses like he can’t believe he’d actually told Jaskier where they’re heading.

“Sounds wonderful, they have a lovely ballroom there that I’m sure I could find my way into!” He adjusts the strap of his lute and tugs down the doublet to straighten it again. He needs to go to Hagge because there’s a small branch of the Brotherhood there and he needs to send a raven back to Oxenfurt – but Geralt doesn’t need to know that.

Geralt grunts eloquently and that’s all there is to it. The Witcher still eyes him dubiously as he starts humming but doesn’t say much overall. And that’s fine, as well. Jaskier can do all of the talking for the both of them.

* * *

Jaskier doesn’t know how it happens. One day he’s an _Oxenfurt Academy alumni_ and the next he’s travelling with Geralt, singing songs about the brute and keeping the air filled with his chatter all too happily.

It doesn’t deter him from his missions and every time a new mission comes in, he goes off on his own to take care of it if it’s not in the town that they’re in at the moment. Geralt watches him go with a muted sort of fascination but he doesn’t try and stop him. It’s good – travelling with Geralt. He makes for a good muse and Jaskier appreciates the inspiration.

He also appreciates Geralt and his oaf-ish ways as well. The man is rough, calloused but noble and caring – possibly more than he’d like to admit. He claims he has no feelings but Jaskier sees him care more than the average peasant would. The Witcher tells him to _fuck off_ more times than he can count and Jaskier takes it in stride. Travelling with the man is _fun_. He loves the thrill of covering his tracks and if his mother and his Masters could see him now – they’d curse him to the beginnings and the ends of the time itself.

But he can’t help it. He loves the little shiver that goes along down his spine as Geralt frowns in his direction like he’s a puzzle that the Witcher can’t solve. Loves how Geralt grumbles and complains but lets Jaskier tag along nevertheless. The Witcher never asks him what he does when he leaves on his own – or why he comes across him in the most random of towns and villages – but Jaskier knows that he’s curious. He knows the glimmer of those golden eyes like he knows that it matches the one in his own. Jaskier is curious about the Witcher, too, more about Geralt himself than the fact that the man’s a Witcher. But Geralt doesn’t offer information no matter how much Jaskier presses. But that’s alright, too. Jaskier is observant; he’s been trained to be so. He picks up on the little things.

Like, the way Geralt won’t enter any tavern that smells too strongly of red wine. Or the fact that Geralt favours his right leg on days that are stormy and gray, right before a heavy rain. Or the way he trusts his senses and instincts more than his mind at times. It’s fascinating, watching the White Wolf work. Jaskier doesn’t think he could deal with the monsters the other is trained to kill but he does think that Geralt’s way of dealing with them sometimes is very charming.

Because, more often than not, Geralt lets the innocent ones go – warns them off doing bad things or if it’s the occasional wraith, helps them cross over. He also lets the ones who hired him stiff him on the payment so on those days, Jaskier makes sure that he works extra hard singing and entertaining to pay for their beds and the baths.

“Why do you always do that?” Geralt asks when Jaskier joins him at their table in yet another nameless tavern in another small village.

“Do what?” He hums, pilfering Geralt’s tankard for himself.

The Witcher goes to grab his hand and Jaskier tugs it out of the way faster than he can realize that he _shouldn’t_ have been able to evade that motion if he were – well, _normal._ Geralt squints at him and then slowly tries again. This time, Jaskier lets him; watches as the Witcher turns his palm over and drags a thumb over his fingertips.

“Play hard enough to bleed. Try and pay for our stay by yourself.” Geralt’s squint turns into a dissatisfied frown.

The only reason Jaskier’s heart isn’t rabbiting inside his ribcage at the unexpectedly tender contact is because he’s too in control of his own body to let it.

“Well, since they always stiff you on the payment, they should be able to compensate in other ways, instead.” He shrugs, taking his hand back and hiding it from view. Despite being something not entirely human, he still heals slowly. It will take a good two days before he’ll be able to play again properly and he doesn’t want Geralt thinking about it.

“You don’t have to.” Geralt grunts, settling into being grumpy again.

“Yes, well. I want to.” He shrugs easily, leaning back and kicking a leg up onto the bench he’s sitting on. “Someone should take care of you once in a while, you big lug.”

“I don’t need to be – _taken care of.”_ Geralt grimaces like the words leave a sour taste in his mouth.

“But that’s what friends are for!” He pouts, leaning against his knee.

Geralt’s face smoothes out momentarily, hands flexing against the table. “We are not friends.”

“Right, of course.” He snorts, knowing that they _are_ despite Geralt’s stubborn words.

“No.”

“And I said: _of course.”_ He smiles, unconcerned with the other’s attitude – he expected nothing less from a man as hardened by tragedy as Geralt.

* * *

Somehow, he manages to get Geralt to go with him to Cintra. And then, he gets him to accompany him to princess Pavetta’s betrothal banquet.

He manages to spew a few words of praise and also manages to sully his own name some more – unfortunately lowering his already-low honour in Geralt’s eyes further. And along the way, he almost lets it slip just how much he likes being around the Witcher. He plays it off easily enough, gets Geralt to think about the food and the drink instead of the words that Jaskier had almost said. He slaps an easy hand onto Geralt’s shoulder, doesn’t let it linger, and gives him a ridiculous grab to wear.

He doesn’t necessarily want to be at the banquet, but there is a man there that needs to be brought to justice – a man that rarely leaves his heavily-guarded estate. His next mission had come by the way of Master Maeve’s Eagle, slightly out of place as it carried the message for him to the town of Kerack where he and the Witcher had been previously. Another lowly Lord thinking he can get away with starving his people and hoarding all the riches for himself without repercussions. And the elusive man is said to be attending the banquet where he will be easily seducible into a secluded corner and dispatched of.

Or so had been the plan.

But, unfortunately, as things often do with Geralt, everything goes tits up as soon as the hedgehog-like man shows up.

And he’d been having such a good time, too. He’d sang all the hits and everybody loved him for them. They all cheered and sang along as he peacocked around the room pompously, being followed by Cintra’s own troupe of troubadours. The Lioness hadn’t looked like she was impressed but Jaskier knew that she’d much rather be anywhere else so he couldn’t fault her for it.

But as soon as the man, Duny, called upon the Law of Surprise and all hell broke loose – Geralt gets in the middle of it, much like he always does and Jaskier takes the opportunity of the chaos to locate the man he’s been watching subtly since the beginning of the evening.

He tugs the man out of the way of a flailing sword, dodges around a flying chair and just before Pavetta steps into the middle of it all; he stabs the man in the side – hitting all of the necessary spots for a quick death. The Lord goes down and Jaskier makes his way to the side – only to be thrown by the wild storm that starts to emerge from the princess. Well, that’s a new one.

It’s over before he can know what’s really happening and there Geralt is as vigilant as always and as magnificent as a White Wolf under the full moon.

And then the idiot calls the Law of Surprise, comically followed by the princess vomiting onto the hall floor.

“Fuck,” Geralt says.

 _Oh, fuck._ Jaskier thinks emphatically.

“I suppose a congratulations are in order.” He mumbles as they leave the hall, heading back to the inn that they’ve come from.

“Fuck off.” Geralt pauses, turning to him sharply. “You’re hurt?”

“What?” He looks down at himself and notices a spot of blood on his sleeve and doublet. “Oh, no. Some man bled on me earlier, awful business. Something must have gotten to him from the – you know – flying cyclone of _things_.” This should suffice for now, until he can get a chance to clean off his blade and wash his hands.

“Please refrain from asking me for my services in the future. Especially if high courts and banquets are involved.” Geralt grinds out, hands clenched and shoulders tensed.

“In my defence, I had no way of knowing that would happen.” He whines. And it’s true – he really couldn’t have predicted that. Even if the room’s whole atmosphere reeked of ill intent, he couldn’t have _known_. He mostly figured that the _bad_ was coming from the Nilfgaardians – like always.

“You never know and yet you always end up being there when it’s trouble afoot.” Geralt growls out, low and menacing – albeit, alluring as well.

“I’m either very unlucky or incredibly lucky, there’s no two ways about it.” He shrugs, stepping to the side slightly to give Geralt some breathing room. And to be able to duck away when the man chooses to smack him with the back of his hand like he sometimes does.

“Luck is a fool’s errand.” Geralt scoffs and walks faster.

Jaskier lets him go. He knows that they’ll meet again eventually – even _if_ the man decides to leave Cintra tonight. He knows that sooner or later, they’ll cross paths.

* * *

He’s strumming his lute somewhere on the outskirts of Vizima, nearby one of the bridges that leads outside of the city when he meets Triss Merigold for the first time in person.

She pauses by him on her horse, stopping to listen to him play. So he puts a little effort into it for her, strums something more complicated, prettier – a familiar tune. He doesn’t meet her eye, instead opts to close them as he plays. He knows the notes by heart, hums the melody to accompany the tune for the sake of his audience.

She gives him a few claps once he finishes and he hops off the fencepost to bow.

“You’re rather good, bard.” She notes, a smile wide on her lips.

“Well, I do try to live up to the name of the profession.” He grins. She doesn’t know who he is but he’s well aware of the Temeria’s Sorceress. It’s his job to know the names of everyone that can possibly endanger his identity or his mission. He really shouldn’t be having any sort of contact with her but – but she looks harmless enough _and_ she could be his ticket into the city.

“Fret not, you do so well.” She chuckles. “You looking for work?”

“Always.” He puts on the charm, layering it thick. He knows what’s inside of Vizima’s walls. Amongst other things – Geralt, but at the moment, more importantly, a man that’s been kidnapping little kids and doing vile things with them that Julian is going to enjoy killing.

“Come on, then.” She offers him a hand and he’s surprised by the generosity.

“Nonsense! I could never. I’m perfectly capable of walking, my Lady.” He waves her off and she rolls her eyes.

“You won’t offend me by sharing my saddle, bard, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She tries again and Jaskier – well, he _is_ only a man, after all.

“Well, if we are to be sharing anything, I suppose I should share my name as well. Please, call me Jaskier.” He bows again and then, with more grace than he should necessarily possess, joins her up on the white horse.

“Triss Merigold, a pleasure. You better hold tight.”

And then they’re off.

He enjoys the feeling of the wind across his face and his feet do appreciate the rest from the road but it’s nothing like riding with Geralt. He takes care not to overstep his boundaries and holds onto the back of the saddle instead of gripping her waist like he would do to the Witcher on the rare occasion that the man lets him ride on Roach. Where Geralt’s large form would conceal him from the chill, he still gets a bit cold where the wind seeps behind Triss’ slighter figure.

“What brings you to these parts, Jaskier?” She asks as they slow again, just in front of the gates.

“I’m making the rounds again. Every year I cycle through a series of cities from Oxenfurt to Dol Blathanna.” He responds, as neutral as possible. “I rarely travel up north but every once in a while, I’ll venture into Redanian cities to grace them with my music.”

She hums, sounding impressed. “Oh, it must be wonderful to travel like that all the time.”

“It’s decent. It’s a way of life. But it’s good to have somewhere to return to, somewhere to settle eventually.” He admits, thinking back to his room at the Academy that’s always available for him to come back to.

“Worldly and wise, bard. There’s a tavern in town-” She continues talking but he zones out the moment they cross the city borders.

Instead, his senses seem to be drawn to Geralt’s presence that becomes more pronounced the closer they come to the densely populated parts of the town. He looks around, searching for that shining light that always lets him know where Geralt is. It’s faint from the distance but it’s coming closer to the main road – almost like Geralt is looking for _him_ in turn. It warms him up more than it should from the inside. 

A couple of moments later the Witcher breaks through the crowd of the market and then they’re meeting gazes.

“Geralt!” He waves excitedly, startling Triss a little.

“Jaskier. What are you – ah, Triss.” Geralt looks between the two of them on the horse, suspicion clear in his eyes.

“Oh, he’s _your_ bard! Of course!” She smacks her forehead like it all makes sense and Jaskier’s chest clenches at being called _Geralt’s_ anything. “I picked him up outside of the city. He was looking rather lonely so I decided he’d be better off with the people here, where he and his talents could be appreciated properly.” She speaks like she’s talking about something else entirely and judging by the way Geralt seems to shrink in on himself, he knows what she’s talking about.

“And I am _very_ grateful!” He chirps, contemplating staying on the horse when the Witcher shoots him a glare. Geralt’s eyes say that if he doesn’t get down, there’ll be trouble – so Jaskier stays up, lays a hand on one of her shoulders to provoke _something_ out of the Witcher. “Lady Triss here was telling me about a tavern in town that is in need of a bard for a celebration of a local festival. I thought I’d give it a shot.”

“I’m sure that Triss has more important things to do than cart you around town, Jaskier.” Geralt growls and Triss snorts under her breath.

“I assure you, I’d be more than happy to show him to the tavern.” She snaps the reins on the horse and they start up into a slow gallop again.

“Come see me play later!” He waves at the Witcher who looks after them with forlorn and confused eyes.

“Well, there’s certainly something unsaid there. He’s a difficult man.” He tells Triss and she nods.

“Difficult is one of the lesser words I’d use.” She sounds – she sounds slightly bitter, her heartbeat speeding up slightly, it’s something Jaskier’s familiar with in an odd, detached way.

“I won’t pry, no worries.” He reassures her when she senses her getting defensive and tense.

“Well, you’re the first one, then.” She hums again, tone a little lighter.

“I love being the outlier,” He chuckles. In a sense – he can relate. She obviously seems to have had – or maybe still has – some misplaced affections towards the Witcher and Jaskier sees in her what he’d see in himself if his heart were not already promised to his craft and the Brotherhood.

“That’s special, you should hold on to that.” She tugs the horse to a stop. “Here we are.”

He gets down from the horse and takes her hand, kisses the back of it with a coy smile. “Would it be too much for me to ask for your audience tonight while I play?”

Her face softens, the worries over Geralt melting away. “I’d love to but I have other matters to attend to this evening. Perhaps I’ll be in contact, ask for a private concert.”

“I’d love nothing more. Thank you, lady Merigold. Your graciousness is much appreciated.” He bows and then walks backwards towards the tavern, not letting his gaze leave her until she’s out of sight.

* * *

Geralt _does_ come and watch him play that night. And Jaskier is happy, he is, but it complicates things when it’s time to trail the man he’s after through the streets.

Some other bard comes to take his spot with his posse of musicians halfway through and he bows graciously to the crowd, takes his money, and vacates the tavern as subtly as he can. He hadn’t looked in Geralt’s direction yet – he can see the faint light from the corner of his eye, can hear his slow heartbeats – so he’s able to slip the man’s watchful gaze easily.

What he _really_ doesn’t expect is the man he’s looking for meeting him outside. Apparently, Jaskier looks _young enough_. He shivers in disgust in the little alley next to the inn across from the tavern as the man blocks his exit.

“This is inconvenient.” He mumbles to himself. He’s still in his bard grab, expensive lavender silks that he’d gotten only recently. The only knife on him is the big one in his boot and his hidden blade but he can’t get that out without revealing what he is to anyone that happens to find him after the deed.

“Hello, darlin’.” The greasy, _wretched_ human-shaped monster purrs disgustingly and it takes all that Julian has in him not to launch himself at him.

He sets his lute to the side, drops his bag next to it and faces the man. “You do know I'm well over the age of thirteen, right?” He growls in turn and the man’s eyes widen.

Anger rises out of his opponent as he rounds on Jaskier in his rage. He easily steps out of the other’s way, dodging the rusted knife the other’s swinging.

“Really, I'm flattered that I look youthful enough. Perhaps it’s my child-like glee or my high voice; I _did_ sound a little pitchy today.” He goads the man into another angry swipe. He idiot smells like cheap ale and something stronger, his pupils dilated and his blood pumping.

“Shut up, whore!” The man screeches and on the next dodge, Julian gets his own knife from out of the boot.

He uses the blade of his hand to smack the outstretched knife-wielding arm out of the way. In turn, with a barely-directed swipe of his own awkwardly held knife – he slashes across the front of the man’s throat. The blood spray is vile, covering his entire front but thankfully avoiding the majority of his face. He darts forward, stabbing the man in the gut and _twisting_ for good measure as the monster gurgles in agony.

“Vile, filthy, rotten.” He hisses quietly. “Good fucking _riddance_.” He drops the man’s slumping form. It’s all over sooner than he would have liked but at least the man’s dead.

He has just enough time to give himself a nick on the hand to make it look like a fight before he hears Geralt’s hurried footsteps rounding the corner. He tenses up, widens his eyes and forces tears into them. _Time for a follow-up performance._

“Jaskier!” Geralt yells – actually, honest to the Gods, _yells._

He turns around innocently, letting his arms drop but not releasing the knife – it’s _his_ knife, he’s going to fucking _keep_ it.

“What happened?” Geralt rushes over, taking stock of all the blood and Jaskier’s carefully crafted disguise of shock and horror.

“He – he attacked me, Geralt – I didn’t mean to! I, oh, what have I-” It feels dishonest when Geralt gathers him in his arms despite the blood covering his front. It feels like that but honesty plays second fiddle to protecting the Creed.

“It’s alright. You did what you had to. It was you or him.” Geralt murmurs into the side of his head.

Except that’s not true. It was never like that. It was always going to be Julian only. Julian alone on the road, chasing the next mission. Julian alone in a tavern despite the crowd of people surrounding him, singing for his food and drink. Julian alone with a dagger in his grip and another person’s life in his hands, ready to take it all. And sometimes, sometimes Geralt was there, too.

Like now, gentler than he has ever been. “You’re hurt,” The Witcher says from above him.

“Oh, um. Just a cut. Not really used to using this t-thing much.” He holds up the knife and Geralt eyes the weapon, impressed.

“So that’s why you always clink when you walk.” Geralt’s smile is tentative and Jaskier chuckles.

He conceals his weapons with a myriad of trinkets to cover the sounds but he’ll let Geralt believe this if wants to. “Well, when you’re not there to protect me, I have to have some way of fighting off the unwanted attention.” He steps back from the other despite wanting nothing more than to enjoy the larger man’s warmth for a moment longer.

“You’re – taking this rather well.” Geralt eyes him critically.

“Please, that’s hardly the first man I’ve stabbed.” He looks away from the insistent and _intense_ gaze.

“How many have you killed?” Geralt growls, looking agitated.

 _Oh, if only you knew._ He thinks to himself bitterly. “Not the first.” He straightens up, aware of the blood dripping off of him. “It’s a cruel world, Geralt. Nobody takes a bard seriously until he starts carrying a knife around.” It’s – well, not the truth either. But it’s all he’ll give Geralt at the moment. And maybe someday, he’ll tell him the truth – maybe not.

Geralt’s face contorts into an unflattering grimace. “Grab your things, we’re leaving.”

He freezes up at the unexpected words. “Leaving? Geralt – what?”

“There’s a job in Rinde. A wyvern and her brood.” Geralt turns around, walking out into the main street and turning towards the stables.

“Geralt!” He rushes after the Witcher, so utterly _confused_. “What are you-”

“There’s no time to waste. It’s been terrorizing the city and the surrounding area.” Geralt, already untethering Roach from where she’d obviously been settling in to sleep, grinds out.

“But – I was going to – and lady Triss wanted a private concert, she said-” He’s cut off by Geralt’s growl and that finally manages to knock him back to his senses. “No.”

“No? What do you mean ‘ _no’?”_ Geralt’s voice wavers and Jaskier thinks about how this is a man not often denied things.

“I mean, _no_. I'm going to the inn and I'm getting cleaned up. You should get some rest and you should let your horse sleep.” He throws his lute over his shoulder and turns back around, not really expecting Geralt to follow. It’s – annoying. The brute thinking he could just boss Jaskier around when half the time he doesn’t even want his company? No, he doesn’t think he’ll have any of _that_ today. Especially after the evening he’s had.

Surprisingly, Geralt follows closely behind, looming above him despite there not being much of a difference in their heights. He knows that Geralt’s trying to be protective, and it’s _nice,_ but he doesn’t want it – doesn’t need it and pretending that he does is taxing. He’s so very _tired_.

He enters the inn and tries to go for the innkeeper in order to get a room but Geralt grunts and nudges him up the stairs.

“I got the last available room, we’ll have to share.” 

“Great,” He rubs a hand across his face and realizes that it’s still sticky with blood. “Tell them to draw a bath, would you?”

Geralt nods, “It’s the last room down the hall.” The Witcher turns back to the innkeeper and Jaskier sighs, climbing the stairs.

It’ll take a bit for him to get back into the groove of things. Having to kill out in the open like this with possible witnesses and with Geralt so close – well, it’s never happened before. His brother was right, he was getting sloppy.

He was planning on going back to Oxenfurt to report about this mission himself but now that Geralt’s insisting they go to Rinde, he’ll have to postpone his visit and send a raven instead.

Well, he doesn’t really mind hanging out with Geralt but it does make things awkward when he gets a new mission or takes something up along the way.

Geralt enters the room just as he’s disrobing and promptly pauses at the door. He tilts his head at the Witcher, half naked and still smeared in blood where it had seeped through his doublet and shirt. He hears a faint irregularity in the other’s heart beat – no real change in the speed but a new heaviness to it that he hasn’t heard before.

“The – the washroom’s ready.” Geralt clears his throat and nods his head in the direction of the designated bathing room.

“Thank you.” He bends to pick up the fresh, plain white shirt he’d picked out and puts it on for the short walk, gathering the rest of his sleep clothes into his arms.

Geralt nods and steps aside to let him pass. Jaskier thinks he’ll be able to leave without a comment but Geralt grabs his wrist then, palms rough and calloused.

“Jaskier,” The Witcher starts but the words seem to be stuck in his throat.

“It’s fine, Geralt. I know.” He pats the other’s wrist and the Witcher releases him. He feels the eyes on his back the entire way to the washroom like a scalding caress.

* * *

Somewhere along the way, Jaskier does the unthinkable – something that _Julian_ would never do. He falls for the Witcher _hard._

It’s unwise, inadvisable, so very, _very_ bad for him overall and yet. The way his chest feels tight all the time is bad for when he needs to be stealthy but keeps getting distracted. The way Geralt’s gaze makes him clumsy all the time is bad for how he presents himself to the Witcher. And the way his stomach is constantly in knots makes it hard for him to eat and in turn makes it difficult for him to have enough energy for his usual training and his runs.

It’s bad. And worst of all is that Geralt doesn’t even see how bad it is. The Witcher remains oblivious – which is good, of course, but sometimes it makes Jaskier so angry that he wishes Geralt would realize what he feels and tell him to fuck off already. The more time he spends with Geralt, the longer he goes between missions and completing them. The places and people on the letters he gets don’t always match the places Geralt wants to go to.

And he loathes to leave the Witcher’s side. So the missions get postponed and he just feels worse each time. Because these are bad people that need to die and yet Jaskier remains trailing after the Witcher like a lost pup. Jaskier is – he is a selfish creature. Always has been. Aerest always told him that his vices would be his demise but he never thought it would be this soon – a measly twenty years after becoming a full-fledged assassin. 

“By the Gods, Geralt, would you slow down!?” He whines as the Witcher’s steps keep to their insistent path through the forest and towards the river.

“Fuck off, Jaskier,” Geralt growls, detangling the net he’s carrying.

Really, Jaskier has no idea what the man is doing but this doesn’t bode well. The whole river stinks of something infested and whatever Geralt is after isn’t the best. Jaskier is a man of many talents but right now, he wishes he had the power to stop him. But Geralt’s too stubborn to listen to him on a good day and the past week and a half have definitely not been good.

“ _What_ are you _doing?”_ He hisses as Geralt throws the net into the river.

“Fishing for a Djinn.” The Witcher responds and Jaskier freezes.

Oh, this _definitely_ isn’t going to end well.

And he’s right. The petty squabble was unnecessary and unwarranted but Geralt had been cranky for _days_ and it was even wearing on _his_ steely nerves and he didn’t really mean to pester and prod but he didn’t want to let Geralt put himself in danger by unleashing a Djinn and then – well. He’d gone and gotten _himself_ in danger instead.

It’s all a blur after that. He’s vaguely aware of his panicked grasping of Geralt’s hands and the too-long ride to town and Geralt holding him up behind himself on Roach as the horse gallops away. Then, the faint notion of a naked man in the middle of someone’s kitchen and an – an _orgy??_

And then it was lights out for him.

When he comes to he meets a pair of purple eyes staring at him intently. He startles as she starts rambling about the Djinn but he already knows that he’s not the one that holds the power over the creature but that it’s Geralt instead.

“Wh – this _is_ quite lovely but I should really be going now!” He scrambles backwards away from her, ready to spring and attack if she tries anything, getting out of the bed. The woman is, obviously, a sorceress and he doesn’t have many things effective against the lot of them but he can still put up a fight. If he’s guessing correctly then he also knows which one she is. 

“Use the last wish bard!” She growls, her breasts on full display and a pattern of an urn drawn over her stomach. Well – that’s rather tragic.

“I would love to but my – uhm, voice hasn’t quite healed yet.” He coughs, pressing a hand to his throat. He stands there; the large canopy bed a barrier between them, as she glares at him angrily.

“Speak bard or I tell him what you _really_ are.” She hisses, baring her teeth in anger.

He glances at the bracer on his forearm where the hidden blade is, at the one of the rings that triggers the mechanism, eyebrows lowering. “And you assume he doesn’t already know.”

“He wouldn’t be travelling around with the likes of _you_ if he did.” She places both hands onto the bed, eyes blazing angrily.

Her words strike a cord in him that he forgot he even has. It rings out emptily inside his head, shaking loose all of the bad thoughts that he’d been suppressing for a while now. Thoughts like the one about how Geralt doesn’t kill men. How Geralt slays _beasts_ and keeps away from the troubles that concern mortals. How he would be disgusted if he knew what Jaskier got up to when they weren’t travelling together. He’d think Jaskier a monster.

He jerks back, covering the bracer with his sleeve and buttoning it back over the worn leather. “I can’t help you. I don’t have the control over the beast. It’s Geralt – and he’s – who knows where.” He straightens up and wipes at the blood in the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck!” She slams her hands against the bed in a display of her fiery temper. “No! No! No!”

“It won’t help.” He tucks the shirt back into his pants. He looks a little worse for wear but he’ll be damned if he remains that way for long – this whole ordeal is beneath him. “What you’re trying to do with the Djinn. It can’t grant you what you seek.”

“How would _you_ know?!” She screeches, irritating his hearing and he winces.

“You’re hardly the first person to try.” He scoffs. “Call this off, save yourself. There – there are probably other ways.” She doesn’t stink of ill-intent is the thing. She seems misguided and angry, channeling it into the wrong agenda. Jaskier doesn’t believe she has bad intentions at all.

“There aren’t! I’ve tried it all! In all of my years! Nothing helps!” Tears spring to her eyes and he feels a pang of hurt at her anguish.

“If it’s a legacy you want – Yennefer, was it? If that’s it then – then you don’t need to go down in history as a mother first. You can do things, be good and help. People who are great are remembered for their work, the deeds they’d done, not for their progeny.” He runs a hand through his hair, huffing. People were sometimes as puzzling to him as the Elder scriptures he’d been made to read as a child. “You can – there are children in the world without parents. You can make them your own. I know it’s not the same, but-”

“Shut up.” She hisses, slumping down against the bed, falling to her knees. “Shut up and leave, _Hashashin,_ and take your Witcher with you.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” He tugs his boots on and heads for the door, wondering if she’ll be okay by herself now that her plan’s failed.

“Jaskier, you’re okay.” Geralt’s voice is deadpan but his smile is genuine.

“Yes, no thanks to you.” He hisses. “Now go up there and thank the crazy woman so that we can leave this cursed place already.” He waves a hand towards the house. “Hope you made your last wish or she might try and use it to become the vessel for the Djinn.”

Geralt’s eyes widen, “She _what?”_

 _“_ It’s fine, I talked her out of it.” He rubs a hand over his throat, still feeling a phantom ache from his previous malady.

“Fuck.” Geralt grunts and then hurries towards the door.

“Don’t keep me waiting!” He sits down onto a stump, prepared to wait for only a moment before the house starts shaking. His eyes widen, mind racing to the possible reasons for it all and he can’t think of anything useful before the top part of the house collapses.

“No.” He curses, jumping to his feet and waiting for the noise to die down. He crouches, pressing a palm to the ground and concentrates. _There_. He sighs in relief, hearing Geralt’s steady heartbeat and Yennefer’s frantic one.

“Thank the Gods.” He breathes out, following the sound of their bickering voices until they cut off and then – oh.

“Well,” He mutters to himself, quickly averting his gaze from the couple that’s otherwise _engaged_ on the basement floor _._ “That’s one way of thanking her, I suppose.”

The lump in his throat doesn’t have anything to do with his vicious malady this time. He swallows around it and walks away, no longer fearing for Geralt’s and Yennefer’s lives. _At least they’re alright_.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Of course this would happen. Geralt can’t keep it in his leather pants no more than Jaskier can. At least most of his bedmates aren’t bat-shit crazy. Usually.

“That’s – well.” The elf that had helped them earlier, Chireadan, stammers.

“Better luck next time, my friend.” He sighs, patting the elf on the shoulder as he passes him. Unfortunately, the elf follows behind and away from the sight of _that_ persistently _._

“Wait! Um, you’re – you’re Julian, right? The one that-”

“Travels with the Witcher? Yes, obviously.” He rolls his eyes, petting Roach’s neck and, despite Geralt warning him against spoiling his horse, feeds her a sugar cube from the Witcher’s bag.

“No. I mean, yes, obviously. But the one that helped Filavandrel in Dol Blathanna.” Chireadan hushes, looking around carefully.

He tugs the elf closer to him, hissing to quiet him down. “Silence, fool.” He shoves the elf down the road and away from the house, waving at Roach as they leave.

“How do you know about that?” He runs a hand through his greasy hair again and then smoothes it down, he is in desperate need of a bath.

“Word travels fast amongst our kind. It was a noble deed.” Chireadan nods in gratitude and Jaskier huffs, a little uncomfortable at the other’s solemn tone.

“It’s what – well. Maybe not _everyone_ would have done it but there was no sense in letting everything go to waste when Filavandrel’s people were – _are_ – suffering. I knew it was bad but seeing just _how_ bad – well.” He shrugs, thinking back to the King’s words of his people’s demise. Humans truly were a cruel batch.

“You have a kind heart, bard.” The elf hums and Jaskier snorts.

“Kind-hearted people aren’t killers.” He says derisively, dismissing the notion.

“That may be so, but murderers end lives regardless of if they’re deserving of it or not. And you’ve been taught to judge fairly and only end the ones that deserve the wrath of the _Brotherhood_.” The elf hums, seemingly having no qualms about keeping the company of an assassin while they walk.

“You know, it’s really _her_ loss.” He winks at the elf and the tips of Chireadan’s ears become as pink as his cheeks.

“Thank you.” The elf nods and they lapse into comfortable silence.

Halfway back towards the encampment him and Geralt had stumbled upon earlier, he hears the sound of Roach’s hooves pounding against the ground. He pauses briefly, turning to watch the horse round the bend, Geralt perched upon her gallantly but looking a little ruffled.

Oh, how he wishes his heart didn’t stutter at the sight of him like that. _Pathetic_.

“Jaskier.” Geralt grunts, seemingly out of breath from – _hmpf_. 

“I see you’re alright, as well, Geralt.” He grins feebly, hoping there isn’t a grimace on his face. “Pardon me for leaving on such short notice but it didn’t seem polite to loiter around while you two – well.” He waves a hand around suggestively, keeping his voice light and easy.

Geralt doesn’t even _try_ to keep the grimace off _his_ face. “You were right about the Djinn thing.”

“You made the last wish then? What was it?” He tilts his head up, observing as the frown on Geralt’s face deepens.

“Something I’ll come to regret, surely.” The Witcher sighs. “Come on.” And surprisingly, the man offers him a hand up, presumably asking Jaskier to hop onto the horse.

 _But_ Jaskier is feeling particularly _petty_ today, especially after everything, so he waves the Witcher off. “Oh, no! I think I’ll stick around with Chireadan for day or two. He seems to have some interesting tales to tell and I'm in need of new material. You go on ahead, Geralt, I'm sure we’ll meet again soon.”

The corners of the Witcher’s mouth turn downwards. “Stay here? In the forest? With hi- _them_?”

“Hardly the first time I’ve camped, Geralt, you should know this. Besides, all of my things are still there.” He rolls his eyes and knocks his shoulders against the elf who’s keeping silent and who reeks of fear – probably due to Geralt’s unsightly grimacing.

The Witcher steels himself, retracting his hand and gripping the reins instead. “Hm.”

“Bye, Witcher, safe travels!” He waves, tugging Chireadan deeper into the forest and away from the main road. The sound of hurried hooves grows fainter and fainter until they’re out of Jaskier’s earshot entirely.

“What was that about?” The elf squeaks, obviously surprised.

“My apologies, I just – I need a little reprieve before I can start travelling with the Witcher again.” He admits, rubbing a thumb against the trigger ring.

“Ah.” The other sounds entirely too understanding for Jaskier’s liking but he supposes his woes are rather obvious to those around them. The outside perspective is always rather insightful.

“Hope you don’t mind. I’ll be out of your hair come morning. I have to get to Hengfors to pick up a mission and probably meet Geralt halfway there. As these things usually go.” He twists to the side, stretching his back.

“You two seem to be bound by Destiny in some way.” The elf concludes wisely and Jaskier snorts.

“It certainly seems like it, doesn’t it? For better or for worse.” He hums. “Too bad Geralt doesn’t believe in Destiny.”

“Believe in it or no, it matters not to Destiny itself.” Chireadan chuckles, unaware of having just left Jaskier’s head spinning.

In a way, Chireadan is right. Geralt can’t go against Destiny much longer. But Jaskier knows that Geralt will resist whatever Destiny he can until it’s too late – even when it comes to his Child Surprise. And when it’s too late – not even Yennefer’s considerable talents will be able to help them.

* * *

He picks up a mission in Hengfors, a cry for help, really. The King of Caingorn is, apparently, gathering groups of warriors and sending them after a dragon that is said to reside in the mountains there. It is no strange feat that the chapter of the Brotherhood in Hengfors received this mission with three specific names should they find themselves in the area. Ruslana _,_ Theovale and _Julian._ And lo and behold, Julian was the first one there. He knows that many missions all over the continent are titled to him and have been ever since he started travelling but most of them are often open to acquisition by any assassin willing. This however, to have such a short list of those that are entitled to accept the mission – well. That certainly shows how important this mission is.

“Reckon you’d show up before the others.” The Master of the chapter, a wiry man named Oleg, had shaken his head as he gave him the parchment. “The other’s don't usually travel this far up north.”

“I go where I'm needed.” He’d shrugged.

“Yes, you always do somehow do that.” Oleg had scoffed dismissively and that had been that.

So Jaskier sets a course for the Dragon Mountains with the beast that’s being hunted on his mind. Dragons are rare and valued for their knowledge and power by the Brotherhood and to learn of such a hunt being organized against one – well. Jaskier wouldn’t ignore the honor of taking up such a task.

It makes too much sense that he meets Geralt outside of Barefield's borders.

“Stay here and watch my stuff.” Geralt grunts instead of greeting him properly and Jaskier sighs, taking out his notebook and continuing with his previous chore of writing the next ballad.

“A basilisk, you say.” He hums, trying to find words that rhyme with snake. “Large cake? No, that’s silly. _Slain in its wake?_ That could work. _”_ He hums, tapping his writing utensil against the notebook. “Slither in your dreams? Slither away followed by screams? Until you meet the day’s end – cornered after the bend? That’s stupid, is that stupid, Roach? Does it need more metaphors? Are the S’s too _snake_ - _y_?”

“Come on, it’s been an hour. No sense in waiting for a dead man.” One of the men that had hired Geralt moves towards Roach and Jaskier reacts before he can even make sense of the situation – hand on knife, knife under the man’s throat.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He hisses. “Back away slowly and you might keep your life yet.”

“Looks like the little songbird’s got talons.” A new voice joins the conversation and everything in Julian shudders at the presence at his back. “Run along now, men. You wouldn’t want to rob a Witcher anyway.”

“Oy, old man! Don’t tell me what to do!” The man that _doesn’t_ have the knife to his throat yells.

“How unfortunate.” The man at his back’s hand comes into view and a dark skinned woman steps towards the man threatening to rob them and – and then the man’s dead.

“Shite!” He curses as the man drops to the ground, his neck broken. The one in front of him splutters and stumbles back, dropping the bag of coin at his feet and rushing out of sight.

“By the Gods.” He grumbles just as Geralt comes back into sight with the basilisk head hanging from his hands.

“What did I miss?” The Witcher looks between the four of them and the dead man on the ground.

“She just snapped this man’s neck!” He accuses the woman, waving his knife around wildly.

“And why do you have a knife then?” Geralt nudges him to the side and picks up the bag of coins.

“I was trying to defend your one true love, Roach!” He stows his knife back into his booth, picking up the notebook where he’d dropped it in his haste. Then, he finally turns to look at the man that’s come to his rescue and – well. That’s no man at all. Borch Three Jackdaws or, known in the scriptures as _Villentretenmerth,_ the Golden Dragon of all the creatures.

“Very noble.” Borch grins at him, obviously aware of what exactly Jaskier knows.

“Are you hurt?” Geralt tugs him back around, patting him down and checking for wounds. “Your heart’s-”

“Well, excuse me for not really liking murder in my vicinity!” He swats Geralt away, grunting and avoiding the Dragon’s eye.

“Hm.” The Witcher grumbles, eyeing the three strangers. “Who are _you,_ then?”

And so the man introduces himself for who he is without _really_ introducing himself for _what_ he is and Jaskier knows that this is going to be a long journey up the mountain.

* * *

It becomes even longer once they encounter the Reavers and Yarpen’s gang. And then – well, of course, then in comes Yennefer followed by Sir Eyck of Densle, the man that’s been putting Witchers out of work for a while now. The man that _sneers_ and _spits_ at Geralt’s feet like he’s not walking around with a witch of his own.

Jaskier doesn’t like the knight. He doesn’t like Yennefer much either, but at least they acknowledge each other with a nod of the head out of respect.

And even though Geralt claims he _doesn’t_ hunt Dragons, he agrees to the hunt the moment he spots Yennefer – and doesn’t _that_ hurt more than any stab wound he’s ever been burdened with? He busies himself with Téa and Véa who barely blink as he spews his usual _Jaskier_ bullshit about necks and beautiful skin.

The first night is all _fine_. He sings a few songs around the fire, has various men of the posses patting him on the back and showering him with requests. They’re all in high spirits but the beef between the Dwarfs and the Ravers brings out some arguments that he puts himself in the middle of because, really, he doesn’t want any mindless violence souring the air with its rotten stench while he plays.

He hears Geralt growl in his direction every time he tries to distract the men but the Witcher settles down the moment Jaskier succeeds in leading them into another round of _The_ _Fishmonger’s Daughter_.

Once the men settle down to sleep and Geralt goes to survey the perimeter for straggling beasts, Jaskier takes his leave. There’s really nothing for him to do here – Borch Three Jackdaws can handle whatever it is that he’s planning on doing here and Jaskier isn’t keen on spending time with Geralt and Yennefer eye-fucking each other across the campsite.

“Leaving already, _bard_?”

It unnerves him that Borch doesn’t make noise as he walks. He wonders if Geralt is aware of this. Maybe it’s just Jaskier and _his_ stupid senses that can make out the difference between _near-silent_ and _completely lacking_.

“Well, you seem to have the situation under control. I don't see why I should stick around.” He tugs his doublet down nervously. He’s never really met a dragon before and many from his Brotherhood would take every advantage of this honour to learn things from said dragon – and Valens, his brother, will probably beat him up when he learns that Jaskier had let the opportunity pass him by – but he _really_ doesn’t want to be here with this company any longer.

“You’re here on a mission, yes?” Borch asks and he nods. “What is it?”

“Get rid of the men hunting the dragon even if it traces back to higher nobility. There weren’t many details to go off of. Just that the dragon in question had begun stealing the livestock form the villages in Caingorn. Certainly, though, it wasn’t a golden dragon.” He raises an eyebrow at the other and Borch chuckles.

“You _are_ a bright one. I can see why Geralt keeps you around.”

Now, he’s sure that the man doesn’t mean anything bad by it but given the situation, it strikes that out of tune cord in him that rings out dully. “Geralt doesn’t _keep_ me around. I choose when I’ll follow him and he certainly doesn’t know what _I am._ ”

“My mistake, then.” Borch raises his arms up in surrender. “I figured that the two of you had a working contract, if not a private one. It makes sense to travel like this.” The dragon waves a hand at him. “The Blight of the Beasts and Evil Men’s Undoing, the team from dreams! They used to – well. I suppose that’s a practice long forgotten.”

“They used to _what_?” He hisses, crossing his arms over his chest as the draconid trails off mysteriously.

“The Witchers were once close to the Brotherhood. A feud between the two over the _immoral_ treatment of their recruits caused them to break apart and drove the Witcher guild into the mountains while the Brotherhood kept to the shores.” Borch takes a seat on a stump nearby, motioning for Jaskier to join him.

“They never said-” He cuts himself off. Well, they never said much of anything _ever_ , really. Above the Creed, there was no information needed and only the eldest of the Masters had access to the oldest of the scriptures.

“I suppose they wouldn’t have.” Borch nods. “They were ashamed. For, their inherent abilities were what had inspired the guild of Witchers to start their experiments, to mutate their students in order to reach the same powers that were inherent to the few bloodlines in the Brotherhood.”

He splutters, tilting forward in shock. “What? They – but that’s.”

“You know what a Witcher _is_ , Julian – a _mutant_. It doesn’t make him a bad person, no, it doesn’t make him even less of a person than you or me. Though, I suppose those are bad examples. But. But to gain what he has, the abilities that are in every Witcher – it’s an arduous and painful process of imitation that they’d developed while with the Brotherhood.” The dragon watches him closely as if he’s expecting some sort of grand outburst.

But Jaskier doesn’t react outwardly. Instead, he takes a moment to absorb the new information and breathes deeply. “Yes, I suppose now it makes sense why they keep everyone in the dark until a certain age. To know that the Brotherhood has been the origins of such an unethical practice – well. It really _is_ a morally gray area.”

“That and they’re afraid that the ones that are not blessed with the _gifts_ will seek what the Witchers know.” Borch chuckles. “Humans are always _so_ greedy. They see a shiny, new thing that they don’t have and immediately wish to posses it. The need to have it consumes them until they’re no longer human at all. I suppose a shortened lifespan would do that to a species.”

He grunts, thumbing at his many rings, feeling the warmth of the metal. “Quite unfortunate, that, I'm rather fond of them lot.”

“Well, not even beings like us have the best judgement most times.”

“Thank you, for telling me. But I still don't see how I’d be of any use.” He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face in irritation. Borch stalling him only increases his chances of getting caught by Geralt while sneaking off and he doesn’t like that.

“You’re of more use than you know, Julian.” The dragon chuckles. “You should ride whatever’s troubling Geralt at the moment out and stick by his side. He needs you more than he thinks he does.”

He colours, heat hitting his face and the tips of his ears. “He doesn’t _need_ me. Geralt’s always been very adamant about not needing _anyone.”_

“He doesn’t _want_ to need you. But there’s a reason why Witchers and Assassins worked so well together. It was a balance almost naturally achieved. Plus, he needs someone to look after him for what is to come.” Botch stands up and dusts off his pants. The dragon turns around and walks back towards the camp.

He groans lowly, “That doesn’t sound ominous at all!” He throws his hands up and reluctantly goes back to the campsite, kicking up some dust as he puts his bedroll down. _Stupid, vague, incomprehensible dragon horseshite._

* * *

The next day brings more rows between the hunting parties that Jaskier has no patience to deal with. So he marches on ahead, closer to Yennefer and Sir Eyck than he would have liked but far away from the angry shouting of mad men. Though, up here, he has to deal with Eyck painfully floundering and singing his own praise and trying to woo Yennefer unsuccessfully.

He can’t blame her for only having eyes for Geralt, really. Jaskier’s been an unfortunate victim to that malady for a while now as well. Though, Yennefer seems to be faring a lot better than he has been. But, he supposes that she’s too calm and collected for her feelings to affect her so – that _and_ she actually has Geralt's affections returned.

“Tell me, bard, will you sing songs about my great victory on this mountain once I've slain all the beasts on it?” Eyck turns to him suddenly, eyebrow raised and a grin on his face that says he’s obviously expecting an affirmative answer.

Jaskier sneers, upper lip curling and his eyes squinted at the nasty man. “I’m sorry, my good Sire, I only tell stories about _real_ heroes.” It’s childish and stupid, downright idiotic to get on this man’s bad side but Jaskier’s loyal to a fault – and if it’s between defending Geralt and earning coin, then it’s no choice at all. 

Sir Eyck reels back a little and Yennefer covers her snort with a cough. “Feral little bastard, aren’t you?” Eyck hmpfs, “I suppose a degree of derangement _is_ needed if you are to travel with the freak.” Eyck makes the mistake of leaning in to loom over Jaskier with his height and Julian growls, smacking the bottom of the man’s chin with the back of his hand in order to close his blabbering mouth.

Yennefer turns around, her shoulders shaking with concealed laughter as Eyck splutters, his tongue certainly smarting from where the man had bitten it at the sudden motion imposed on him and Jaskier fights the urge to grin.

“Don’t talk to me again, cunt.” He hisses at the knight and stalks forward, followed by the laughs of the men around them; he has no doubt that Geralt had overheard his little _fit_ but at the moment he doesn’t care. The knight’s tone of voice just got on his nerves and the previous time he’d run into the man, the knight had done nothing but badmouth everything that didn’t meet his standard of _normal_.

“Brave, little songbird.” Yennefer hums. “Then again, _considering,_ not a surprise.” She pauses, seemingly realizing that they’re within Geralt’s earshot and then clears her throat. “Takes courage to travel alongside a Witcher for so long.”

“It was an acquired trait.” He nods to her in thanks, appreciative of the fact that she’s still keeping his secret. “How come you’re travelling with our dear Sire _Cuntsworth_?”

She shrugs, “They’re paying well.”

“Now _that_ I can relate to.” He chuckles and she huffs through her nose in amusement.

They have to leave the horses. He watches as Geralt pats Roach on the side, murmuring to her softly about coming back as soon as he can and treating her to a nice satchel of apples in the nearest town.

“Something’s about to shift.” He feels it in the air. Everything stinks of _change_ and he hates it. Whatever happens on this mountain, whatever happens with Jaskier and Geralt and Yennefer and the rest – it’s definitely not going to be something he’s looking forward to.

“Very vague and menacing.” Yennefer hums. “It’s impressive that you can sense that.”

“More inconvenient than anything. I’d rather be oblivious to it all.” He sighs, drumming his fingers against his lute case nervously.

“These gifts of ours were wrapped rather nicely for what they really are, huh?” She briefly squeezes his arm before moving towards where Geralt’s taking the lead with Borch.

That night, while everyone’s slumbering and Geralt is well – _occupied_ in Yennefer’s tent, he stands on top of the hilly formation they're on and looks at the full moon. It’s enchanting, the way it makes everything look so light and awash with a fine white glow. It’s rather peaceful.

Well, up until the blade of a sword is pressed to his throat. He sighs, leaning back into Sir Eyck’s chest heavily.

“You know, if you wanted me for yourself, my good Sir, all you had to do was ask.” He purrs and the man’s grip on the blade relaxes enough in shock that Jaskier can smack the hand away. He slips the hidden blade out and stabs it through the hand holding the sword while he’s turning. His left hand covers the knight’s mouth and the man’s eyes are wide and _scared_ when they meet his.

 _“_ It’s fun to fight mindless monsters but not so much when the monsters fight back, huh?” He hisses. “I’ve had quite enough of you and your Witcher slander. And I _know_ what you did in Tridam the last time I’d seen you there. The poor girl didn’t make it, in case you were wondering. Now, you’re not my mission but I’ll do this one for free out of the kindness of my heart.”

The man’s cries are muffled, his hand bleeding sluggishly where it’s still cut through with the blade. There are tears streaming from the man’s eyes as he presumably tries to beg for his life. But Jaskier’s not a benevolent being, never particularly was.

“You’ve run your course, bastard.” He pulls the blade back and then in a swift move slides it into the side of the man’s neck. The knight keens and his eyes roll back, going quiet very quickly.

He steps aside and lets the body tumble down the hill and into some bushes. He looks down at the blade and sighs at the blood staining it. He takes a handkerchief out of his doublet’s pocket and wipes it clean with the soft fabric. A waste but a necessary one. He tosses it after the body and turns around to find himself faced with Téa and Véa who are looking at him with equally curious gazes.

“What? He had a sword to my throat.” He looks down at the ground and kicks said sword down the hill as well. _Good fucking riddance._

“Swift and efficient.” Véa hums and Téa nods.

“Well, I’m glad you approve. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He starts walking back to where his bedroll is but the two follow. He shoots them a glare. “I trust that you’ll keep quiet about this.” They nod. “Good.”

“Villentretenmerth wanted us to keep an eye on you tonight.” Véa says, voice low and quiet but insistent.

“He was adamant.” Téa adds and Jaskier snorts.

“I’m not going anywhere, if that’s what he’s worried about.” He sits down and they follow him, sitting down by side. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“While I appreciate the concern, I’m fine, really.” He tries squirming away but they’re sitting plastered to his sides so he can’t really go anywhere but forward because there’s a large rock behind him as well.

“Then you’ll be even better with us here.” Véa says and her word is final.

Geralt wakes him with a kick to his foot early in the morning. He’d apparently fallen asleep with Téa and Véa keeping him warm on both sides, silent sentinels during the night. He looks up at Geralt blearily and notices that the man is frowning down at him, eyebrow raised and eyes straying to the two warriors still flanking him.

“What’s this about?” Geralt motions to the two women and Jaskier huffs.

“Borch was worried that the men would try and drag me into another round of late-night gwent and singing and that I wouldn’t have any energy to continue the journey on the morning. Hence, I’d gotten his bodyguards for the night.” He yawns, hating how easily lying comes to him always.

“Someone had to keep him safe.” Véa says cuttingly, surprising both him and Geralt with her words. It’s obvious what she’s insinuating and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“As I said, I appreciate it but I don’t need neither you nor Geralt looking after me.” He stands up, stretching a little and patting the Witcher on his wide chest as he moves past him.

“Morning, Yennefer.” He says pleasantly around the bitterness rising in his throat.

“Any idea what happened to Sir Eyck?” She responds, looking down where the man’s limp body is lying. She definitely knows.

“Must have stuck his sword near the wrong beast.” He says, as pointed as he can be without actually telling her what happened.

She seems to accept his answer for what it is and then moves on. He spares another glance to the dead knight and then walks away. One bad man less on the continent.

“Good thing I had them looking out for me, huh, Geralt?” He says loud enough to know that Geralt’s heard it without it shouting.

“ _Fucker_.” He hears Geralt mutter – somewhat fondly.

* * *

The rest of the trip is a flurry of unpredictable events that send Jaskier reeling. Borch and the warriors falling off the mountainside certainly has him panicking for a moment before he remembers that the man is, in fact, a dragon. The truth that follows, Villentretenmerth’s mate and the egg and then the subsequent fight between who gets to keep the egg and Yennefer and Geralt defending the beasts while the rest try and get to the dragon egg is all unexpected as well. Everything happens very fast and Jaskier stays out of it for the most part. This isn’t his fight. If he chose to join now then Geralt would know for certain that Jaskier is no mere human. He doesn't want that. 

And _then_ – well, then shit _really_ goes to Nilfgaard.

He hears Yennefer as she screams at Geralt and hears the Witcher try and convince her that it doesn’t matter if he’d made a wish about their Destinies or not. It’s hard not to hear them and Borch's words of legacies and Destinies. He’s not sitting too far off and even if he were, he’d still be able to hear them clearly.

Geralt stands up and storms away and Jaskier, the fool that he is, follows after him silently. He remembers Borch’s words about sticking by Geralt’s side but the man makes it so _difficult_ sometimes. And the dragon had dared to talk about Geralt’s Destiny to him which certainly puts an air of _bullshit_ on things as far as Geralt's concerned.

“Phew!” He tries to put on a light tone even though he knows that it won’t work. “What a day. I imagine you’re probably-”

“Damn it, Jaskier!” Geralt growls, turning around with blazing yellow eyes. “Why is whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shoveling it?” The Witcher demands, enraged by the entire situation and senselessly lashing out.

He sighs, averting his gaze. “Well, that’s not fair."

“The Child Surprise, the Djinn, all of it!” Geralt’s hands are clenched by his side like he’s trying not to rush at Jaskier- “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

“Well, that’s real fucking – yeah. Alright. Sure.” He rolls his eyes and the petulant action apparently makes something in Geralt snap - and then he’s moving towards Jaskier at frightening speed. Except Julian won’t let the Witcher push him around like the others do. Geralt’s got a temper, sure, but to go for him like this – with ill-intent in his eyes... No, can’t have that. So he takes a step back up the hill and lets the other metaphorical shoe drop, triggering the blade and placing it under Geralt’s chin, across his throat.

The Witcher pauses, his arms spread out where he’d presumably gotten them into position to push Jaskier back in anger.

“Don’t you dare, Geralt. Not after everything.” He hisses, “One wrong word, one wrong move and you better hope Borch takes mercy on you and heals the wounds you’ll contract.”

“What?” Geralt grunts, squinting at him angrily.

“All these years and you really think that it’s my fault? You think I couldn’t have walked away whenever I wanted? I wanted to travel with you, Geralt, it was always the most fun I’d have on the road. But I didn’t _need_ to travel with you.” He feels the resentment choking him, the vile words coming up and breaking through the filters he’s always had in place when around Geralt.

“I didn’t need _you,_ Geralt. I never have. I’ve always been by your side only because I _wanted_ to be there. And you never even realized that.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s eyes, now wide and alarmed, search for something in his.

He presses the blade closer, nicking the skin faintly and spilling blood. “Everything that’s happened to you has been your own fault, Geralt. I never forced you into any of the situations you’d found yourself in. And frankly, I’m not going to stand for these accusations. So, congratulations, your wish has been granted.”

He retracts the blade, turns to walk away and when Geralt tries to grab him and turn him around, he punches the Witcher in the throat. Geralt bends down, hands gripping the ground as he wheezes.

Yennefer is waiting for him a little ways away from the main road. “Come on, I’ll take you to the campsite.”

“Thank you.” He murmurs, swiping a hand over his face in frustration.

_So much for sticking to Geralt’s side._

She opens up a portal and they step through it, out where they’d left the horses and their things.

“Wish I had the strength to do that.” She sighs as she watches him unload all of Geralt’s shit from Roach.

“What? Punch him in the throat? Sure you could have done that.” He snorts, dropping the unnecessary stuff onto the ground and checking over to see if all of the gear on her is fastened properly.

“Walk away like that.” She says instead. “You’ve been with him for much longer than I have and I almost found it impossible.”

“ _Been with him_ is a strong presumption.” He grimaces, hopping up onto the horse.

“ _Known him_ , then.” She chuckles. “You’re right, you know.”

“I know.” He says without know what she’s referring to.

She grins at him at that and he feels a little better about the whole thing. “Julian, you really are stronger than any of us.”

“What I am is _tired._ ” He admits, feeling like he can confide in her. “Tired of playing second fiddle, tired of pretending I’m someone I am not. It is – it’s time for me to move on and focus on my mission. On the Creed. There’s a reason why the Creed is valued above all in the Brotherhood.” He looks down at her and then offers her a hand. She accepts and he pulls her up onto Roach as well.

“Are you _stealing_ his horse?” She asks, changing subjects before she presumably spills something personal in turn.

“I’m borrowing her.” He runs a hand through Roach’s mane.

“Borrowing implies you’ll give her back the next time you see him.” Yennefer points out and Jaskier’s heart clenches pitifully.

“We’ll see.”

“Where to?” She holds out a hand, preparing to open up another portal.

“You don’t have to, we can take the road.” He grips the reins, hoping that Roach is feeling generous enough to obey his rule for now.

“Nonsense, where to, lark?” Yennefer insists and Jaskier thinks about it, thinks about where he’d like to go. He hasn’t been home in a while and really, it’s time for a visit.

“Oxenfurt.”

“As you wish.” She hums and then – then Jaskier is guiding them through the portal and emerging outside of the walls he’s known so well for so long. 

He’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know i do a lot of hand-wavy bullshit in this but this is an AU just go with it (suspense of disbelief)  
> The Eagle Vision in the Ac universe and the Witcher game mechanics are pretty similar so i was like  
> Hey, why dont i just - *waves at the text* yeah that totally makes sense.  
> Also, apologies for cutting the chapter off where i did expect the next one in like probably two weeks' time or something  
> also! tell me if i need to tag something else that i've missed bc the violence and murder goes with an assassin au but not everyones aware of that so maybe idk


	2. Na vrhu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It's here! It didn't take two weeks but just about because i had an exam to take care of.  
> Alright and as we go on i've realized that this is very Jaskier-centric and plot-rewriting oriented so i'm sorry if it's lacking in the ship department a bit but i hope i make up for it with the smut at the end!  
> Many thanks to all of the lovely people that commented, i've read every single one of your lovely comments and i'm so thankful to recieve the praise and that people actually like this brainchild of mine!  
> Without further ado, here she is, chapter two  
> also, as a sidenote, ive totally fancasted Richard Madden as Jaskier's brother just so y'all know.

Yennefer stays with him at Oxenfurt for a while.

They spend their time at the large library, pouring through texts and old scriptures to maybe try and find something that would help her situation. But when they find nothing, she doesn’t seem _as_ mad as the first time he’d told her that nothing would help.

The Masters look at her dubiously and grandfather Aerest hisses at him for bringing a witch to the Brotherhood’s main keep but he ignores the man and shows Yennefer around the place. While Oxenfurt _is_ the training grounds for young assassins, it is also a proper college. It’s a small town consisting of various buildings dedicated to various functions and only a few of them are dedicated to combat training. The rest are legitimate university buildings for the students that are there not as a part of the Brotherhood but as young people looking for a proper education.

His favorite buildings have always been the large library and the mews where the falcons are kept. He’s never been particularly good at falconry but he’d always liked petting the ones that his grandfather trained.

He takes here there after a few days, when the library’s stale air becomes too much for him to bear and the letters on the pages begin to blur.

“Used to come here a lot as a youngling.” He hums, putting on one of the leather gloves and opening the last box. “This is grandfather’s eagle. The rest are retailed hawks but grandfather’s had this old cook for years now. His name’s Kamov.” He nudges the bird onto the glove and brings him out.

Yennefer watches, fascinated, as the bird watches her back with intelligent eyes. “He seems lovely.”

“Majestic beast that he is,” He starts walking towards the open field behind the mews. “He’ll snap your finger off if he doesn’t like you.” He throws his hand up and the eagle flies, circling around them above and flying off towards the gardens – probably to catch some food. “Did you know, that along with cats and dragons, birds of prey absorb magic when they’re around it, too?”

“So the bird’s magic, then?” Yennefer asks as they watch the eagle dive for the tall grass.

“No. For that there would have to have been magic for it to absorb. He’s just very well trained and smart. But – I’ve seen sorcerers that keep bird familiar, always thought it was fascinating.” He chuckles as she snorts.

“Are you alright?” He turns to face her, dropping the cheery tone and opting for genuine instead.

“Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ that?” She shoots back, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Perhaps, but I thought of it first.” He smiles, enjoying the burst of laughter that he drags out of her.

“It’s – I like being thorough. Even if it means knowing that nothing will help. I like knowing for sure.” She finally says with a slight frown on her face.

“Have you thought about what I said? About children out there that have no parents to speak of.” He presses, feeling like with days spent in companionable conversation, he’s entitled to a little prodding.

“Yes, I suppose. You have a decent point. Plenty of women out there who can’t or don’t want to take care of their babes.” She nods her head, stepping closer to him as the wind picks up. “Your turn now.”

“I have no choice but to be fine.” He sighs. “I can’t let my training and my education go to waste because of a single man, no matter how handsome.” He chuckles sadly as she bumps their shoulders together in an act of comfort. “Being in the Brotherhood is bigger than me, than all of us. The Brotherhood is above all rule, independent and non-corruptible. It’s the last line of defense still impartial to money being offered or power being waved around.”

“The one remaining true neutral force in the world. No ulterior motives, no political scheming. Just the safety of the individual and the safety of the innocent.” She summarizes for him and he nods.

“My duty to the Creed is bigger than my duty to Geralt.” He scoffs at the thought of Geralt thinking that Jaskier had _any_ duty to him.

“What about your duty to yourself?” She turns to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“What do you mean?” He tilts his head to the side, confused and slightly afraid of her incoming answer.

“You can’t dedicate your all to the Creed, Julian.” She hums. “You have to think of your own wants and needs as well. And if being with Geralt is what makes you happy, then maybe you could find a happy medium with him.”

“I’ve been nothing but selfish for years now, Yen.” He kicks at the grass beneath his feet, feeling like his heart is about to leap out of his chest with guilt.

“And were you happy?” She tips his head up to meet her eye.

He swallows thickly, thinking about his travels with Geralt and every single adventure they’d gone on. All of the times where Geralt had taken care of Jaskier’s wounds even when he hadn’t known where they’d come from. Or the times Jaskier took care of Geralt in turn. He remembers the times where they’d sit in silence, him purposefully keeping his mouth shut, and Geralt for once feeling the need to fill it first. Those were some of his favorite nights because they were nights where Geralt would willingly share stories and talk to him about his travels. It was always on those nights that Jaskier would learn just how much Geralt felt and how much he cared despite vehemently stating otherwise.

“For a moment there, I was.” He downplays it, hoping to hide at least a little from her despite their newfound camaraderie.

“Then doesn’t that matter as well? Was it worth straying a little off the path of the Creed?” She runs her hand up his cheek and tucks a little flower behind his ear.

“It shouldn’t have been.” He admits, ashamed that he’d gone against his teachings and followed the heavy beating of his heart instead.

“We’re all flawed. So is the Creed. Sacrificing your happiness for the sake of the greater good is not something that should be taught.” She clears her throat. “They never teach us balance; it’s something we have to learn on our own. Going too far in either direction is… not good.”

“Balance requires truth.” He gulps, holding out a hand and whistling loudly for Kamov to return. “I don’t – well, I’ve maybe already ruined that but I never wanted Geralt to know. It’s like you said, he’d never want to speak to me again. Probably doesn’t now anyway either.” He winces as the bird comes barreling towards them and lands on his arm.

“I’m sorry – when we first met, I wasn’t thinking straight.” She says mournfully. “I know I brought up the insecurities to attack you but I didn’t – I don’t think that he’d be mad, Julian.”

“Yes, well.” He scratches gently at Kamov’s little bird head. “It’s all the same now, isn’t it?” He turns back to the mews and walks away determined not to think about it anymore today.

* * *

Every day he takes time out of their loose schedule to go visit Roach. She’s settled in well with the rest of the Oxenfurt stallions and mares and he likes seeing her running around unburdened and healthy. He feels a little bad for taking her with him but he’ll send her back via Yennefer once she leaves probably. If he were being honest with himself he would admit that he took her with him as revenge – but what would be more honest is admitting that he took her as an incentive for Geralt to track him down.

Never the less, she seems to be enjoying her vacation here where the food is plentiful and Jaskier comes by every day to brush her down and braid her mane.

“Hello, girl.” He calls from the fence and Roach trots towards him merrily. “How are you on this fine morning?” She nuzzles his hand and he feels honored. It hadn’t taken her long on the road to start treating Jaskier like a little colt she needed to look after and much to Geralt’s dismay, he’d gloated about it for an entire week.

“Well, you _do_ look well rested so I’ll take your word for it. Are we going for a ride today, then?” She bumps his chest with her nose and he chuckles. “Alright, alright. I’ll let you socialize with the others for a few more days before we go anywhere, I promise.”

“I never understood why he did that.” Yennefer, yawning and dressed in one of Jaskier’s expensive silk shirts, comments.

“She likes it. And it helps when you’re on the road on your own. I don’t know which number Roach she is but she was relatively young when I’d first met them so he talked to her to calm her down and get used to the presence of magic.” He finishes off the braid he was making with a ribbon he’s brought with him.

“Have _all_ of his horses been named Roach?” She scoffs, coming nearer and leaning against the fence.

“As far as I know.” He chuckles, “He’s not a creative man.”

“Not by any means and even less with words.” She concurs and Jaskier thinks back to the way Geralt told him of his adventures in as little detail as possible. It was frustrating but endearing in a way, too. Just another way in which Jaskier’s affections contradict each other. 

“I was thinking of leaving tomorrow. We’ve combed through the library already and I really should be getting back. Triss and Tissaia have been worried.” She tentatively reaches out and strokes a gentle finger over one of the braids Jaskier had woven.

“It was – well. I’m glad you stuck around, Yen. It helped, I think, to have someone here who knows about – well, everything.” He smiles at her gently and he receives one in turn.

“You’re good company, Jaskier. And I appreciate the help no matter how futile the search was.” She pats his cheek affectionately and he huffs.

“I’m thinking about going to Cintra. My brother is stationed there so I’m going to pay him a little visit. I’ll probably stick around for a bit if you want to come and see us.” He offers her a ribbon and instead of tying it around the end of the braid Jaskier was holding, she ties it around her wrist.

“So that I can find you always.” She grins. “Come on, let’s go annoy Maeve.”

He laughs, trailing behind her as she makes her way towards the building operating as a tavern where Maeve oversees the serving of the meals. Well, despite losing Geralt as a friend, he’s glad that he gained Yen as one.

* * *

His brother takes on look at him and rolls his eyes so hard that Jaskier’s afraid that the man will lose them in the back of his skull.

“Come on, then.” Valens waves him into the yard of his house and shows him to the stables so that he can put Roach away.

“Grandfather wrote to me about a woman you’d brought with you. I didn’t think much of it, but something’s definitely wrong now that I’m seeing you.” His brother looks at him pointedly. “You look like shit.”

“Oh, always so lovely to see you, Valens! You know just what to say to make your little brother feel special!” He sneers offhandedly, wondering why he’d come here in the first place. Well, to lick his wounds but other than that – he’s _still_ wondering without an answer in sight.

“Julian.” Valens’ voice is scolding but Jaskier just sighs.

“How much wine do you have on hand?” He asks as he takes the gear off of roach, throwing the blanket and the saddle over the partition wall.

“Enough.” The older grunts and turns towards the house. “Come on.”

He’s always admired his brother. The older is controlled and reserved, never giving in to his wants and lusts, always so dedicated to the Creed. Unlike Jaskier, who has a weak constitution and indulges in _everything_ too much. And despite being a better assassin than Valens (when it comes to scores and kills), he’s always felt a little inferior to him. There was no reason for it, realistically, but he couldn’t help the feeling.

Valens slams a bottle of fine red onto the table and brings out the fine glasses for them to drink out of. “So tell me, Julian. Last time you showed up here was when the Countess of _Wherever_ sent you packing. That had been years ago. Who is it this time? Surely not the witch you’d brought into Oxenfurt.” There’s a tone of disgust in his brother’s rant – almost like he can’t conceive of doing such a thing, an action that seemed like the right thing to do to Jaskier and an action which he still stands behind.

Yennefer wasn’t technically supposed to be there, it’s true, but she needed refuge and Jaskier needed a friend so it was a mutually beneficial arrangement that had helped him a lot. And – there was no rule about those who already knew about the Brotherhood staying out of Oxenfurt’s chapter.

“Countess _de_ _Stael_ , and no, it wasn’t the witch. Yennefer is a friend and she was in need of help. Which I offered.” He crosses his arms over his chest, daring his brother to comment on the notion further.

“That’s some company you’re keeping, _Jules_. Yennefer of Vengerberg.” Valens leans back, glass in hand and one bushy eyebrow raised.

Gods, he always hated his brother’s smug face. And it’s been a while since he’s seen his brother but he looks the same. Valens has always taken after their mother while Julian was the spitting image of their father. They do have the same blue eyes but that’s where the similarities end. Valens is shorter than him, built differently and his hair is coppery and curly where Jaskier’s is a deep brown. It’s always uncanny how much like their mother his brother looks when he’s trying to scold him.

“Yes, well. She saved my life so there’s that.” He winces as one of his brother’s hands comes up to scratch at his stubble in a tick that means that he’s stopping himself from smacking Julian upside the head.

“And why would she have needed to do that.” Valens’ voice is clipped and Jaskier sighs.

“Well, about that.”

So he tells him. He tells Valens about meeting Geralt, about the years spent trailing the Witcher and about the songs that followed. He tells him about every memorable moment with Geralt and it doesn’t take long for Valens to realize just what Jaskier is talking about here. It doesn’t take his brother even a fraction of the length it took Jaskier to realize that he was ass-over-tits for Geralt and his dumb, brutish ways.

They’re three bottles in by the time he finishes the story, leaving them in silence accompanied only by the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth.

“So he sent you away. And then you punched him in the throat, stole his horse and his woman and came back home to wallow.” Valens repeats like he can’t believe his ears.

“Yennefer is her own woman and she’s made this very clear to everyone involved.” He scoffs.

“Yes but that doesn’t defeat the point that – _Gods, Julian._ All of this!” Valens waves a hand around frantically, his cheeks red from the wine and the mental breakdown he’s having over Jaskier’s situation.

“What can I say? I live for adventure.” He shrugs, feeling docile and sleepy from the wine but not enough to start singing like he usually would.

“What you live for, is _the Creed.”_ Valens slams both of his hands onto the table and Jaskier is out of his seat before he can comprehend it, stance defensive and one hand on the dagger by his hip.

“And what if I don’t want to live for the Creed?” He sneers back, voice rough and words heavy. “What if I want to live for myself?”

“Then you’re abandoning the Creed.” Valens looks as if Jaskier had struck him across the face, features scrunched up in pain.

“ _Nothing is true, everything is permitted?”_ He laughs, loud and exaggerated. “What a load of horseshit! What does it matter who the keeper of my heart is as long as I don’t compromise the Brotherhood!? You stick to your shitty Creed like it’s a written word just because Aerest drilled it into your skull since you were a child.” He throws his hands up. “The Creed is an idea – the idea of _righteousness_. There is nothing in it about being blindly obedient of your Master’s word. Have some sense, brother.”

“The Brotherhood comes first.” Valens grinds out through clenched teeth.

“But what if the Brotherhood is wrong? Tell me, do you know of all the secrets the elders keep? No? And it’s likely that you never will. It was never the Brotherhood’s job to follow rules blindly. The Masters that taught us, grandfather and his generation, they had it wrong. Somewhere along the way it stopped being a Creed and started being a _Commandment_.” His shoulders slump and he turns around, done with the conversation. “Just, think about that. Think about the last time you were happy, brother.”

He leaves Valens to stew in his thoughts, pleased by his own conviction. Yennefer was right; a balance of things is needed.

* * *

In the morning, after he’s done tending to Roach, he takes a walk through the city of Cintra.

The walls are tall around the thing, the castle towers looming in the distance. The outer ring is filled with commoners and the inner ring is filled with merchants, taverns and inns of all sizes. It’s filled with people, almost to the brim, but all Jaskier can think about is running across the rooftops and rafters, climbing Cintra’s admirable walls and making it up the tallest tower of the castle. It’s an assassin’s playground and he wonders if his brother ever takes the stick out of his ass so that he can play in it.

Someone barrels into him hard and he curses at himself for not hearing the hurried steps coming among the rest of the noise.

“Whoa, there!” His hands shoot out to grip the sprog that’s trying to scramble behind him for protection against something. He looks up to see a band of children rushing towards him and he widens his stance in case they decided to try and barrel him over.

“Get out here, Fiona!” One of the kids screeches, cheeks pink in anger. “Hand her over, mister!”

“Now, let’s not do anything stupid, children.” He clears his throat. “I assume that this little one over here has somehow wronged you?”

“She cheated us out of our coin!” Another one chimes in and Jaskier rolls his eyes. How much coin could it be?

He tugs out his purse and picks out a few Cintran coppers and offers them to the child that’s obviously the leader of their little ragtag group. “Hope this is enough to cover her gambling debts.”

The leader of the gaggle takes the coin and counts it, eyes widening because Jaskier had probably given out too much. “Very kind of you, mister, g’day!” They scurry away before Jaskier can even think about replying.

“You didn’t have to do that.” The girl behind him, Fiona apparently, speaks up.

“I didn’t, no.” He turns around and frowns down at the child. She stares up at him in turn, stares up with unnervingly blue eyes that he can immediately place as belonging to the bloodline of the royal family. And if that wasn’t an indication, she has the same faint glow as Geralt does. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Shouldn’t a princess be a little more honest with her people?”

She gasps lowly, stepping back and crossing her arms over her chest. “They had it coming. They cheated every time; it’s not my fault they wanted to put money on the line now when I’d decided to play by their rules.”

“Well, then, I suppose you’ll just have to learn how to cheat better and not get caught, yes?” He probably shouldn’t be advising the crown princess to be dishonest but he’s not going to be the one to scold her either – she should learn how to.

A look of determination crosses her face and she nods. “Will you teach me?” She asks suddenly and Jaskier’s heart leaps into his throat. This is _princess Cirilla_ , the _Lion Cub of Cintra_ , this is _Geralt’s Child Surprise_ , is he even allowed to teach her _anything_? Is he allowed to _speak_ to her? For the first time in a while he feels like he’s out of his depth.

“I don’t think that would be wise, princess.” He admits lowly, looking around to make sure no one from the guard is watching lest he end up in a dungeon.

“This always happens!” She stomps her foot against the ground, arms clenched at her sides. “Nobody wants to teach me _anything_ because I’m the princess! Everyone’s too damn afraid!” And then her eyes get wide and teary and her bottom lip starts wobbling theatrically and Jaskier can’t _physically_ say _no_ to her.

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, knowing he’s going to regret what comes next. “Alright then, call me Julian. But, you have to promise that you won’t tell anyone what we get up to.”

Her face clears up in a matter of seconds and then she’s grinning. “You can call me Ciri.”

Jaskier already knows he’s going to get irrevocably attached to this meddlesome child.

* * *

“No, it’s not about the steps; it’s about predicting your opponent’s attack! We’ve been over this, dear.” He chastises gently. “This isn’t a lecture that needs to be memorized. Now, try again.”

He watches as she wields one of his daggers. After four weeks, she has a good grip on it and her stance is solid but she’s still treating it like something she can memorize. Like she can map out a fight path instead of trying to react accordingly, too used to the teachings of her court tutors that force literature and history into her brain.

It had taken a while to get her used to the idea of learning through practice rather than theory but once they crossed that bridge, she flourished under his watch. They’d quickly moved on from outwitting one’s opponent in Gwent and trying to pickpocket keys from loose-fitting clothes. She was rather good at those now, so he planned on leaving her along. And he’d _wanted_ to say _no_ to anything more than those two lessons but she’d pleaded until he gave in like a spineless sod. So he’d started teaching her the basics of fighting. He knows he can get into a lot of trouble for this but he can’t resist giving the Child Surprise the attention she craves.

His brother’s been on his case about him disappearing every day for a couple of hours but he’s been keeping it a secret from the man. In reality, Valens was probably happy that Jaskier had something else to do instead of moping around his house – plus, the man probably suspects something already, as well. 

She rushes at him and he steps to the side. Ciri switches the dagger into her other hand and turns with a swipe, barely missing his abdomen by a prick because he’d stepped back in time.

“Good, good.” He smiles sardonically, Geralt would kick his ass if he knew he was teaching his Child Surprise how to use daggers that had shed so much blood already. That is, if he even cares.

She lowers her center, solidifying her stance like he’d taught her and then tries again. Rinse and repeat. He dances in a circle as she repeats attack after attack. Eventually, he pushes her into the defensive with some telegraphed moves, testing her ability to defend. She dodges accordingly and he sees her eyes glint faintly green-ish as she turns the tides against him and with a gust of wind knocks him on his ass, the dagger quickly placed under his throat.

“Underhanded but allowed.” He grins and she smiles back, relaxing. He takes the opportunity to grip her wrist and apply the right amount of pressure to a point there that has her dropping the dagger into his other hand. “Never relax in front of an enemy.”

She whines and rolls her eyes. “You’re hardly an enemy, _Jules_.”

He gets up and dusts off his pants. “I’m not but you never know who is.”

“Like the one that gave you this?” She points to his exposed collarbone where a nasty scar mars his skin.

He rubs a thumb along the raised flesh. He remembers the beast that gave him this. It was one of the more unfortunate of his adventures with Geralt. A wraith had gotten a hold of him and he’d gotten a slice across his chest for his struggles. The rest of the scar had faded but this part of it was where the claws had dug in the deepest. Geralt had taken care of it with vitriol in turn and Jaskier could only watch as the thing screeched into the afterlife. Then, Geralt had lifted him up in a bridal carry and taken care of his wounds; stitching the skin together with surprising gentleness as Jaskier drifted in and out of consciousness.

“Julian?” She questions and Jaskier shakes his head.

“No, this was courtesy of a nasty wraith I’d encountered while I was on my travels.” He hasn’t told her about the Brotherhood, she doesn’t need to know about that yet. Or ever, if he can help is. And he hasn’t told her about Geralt, either. She’ll find out about him eventually, though, he assumes she’s heard of the Witcher but not exactly of how he relates to her and her family.

“You’ve travelled a lot?” She sits down onto the ground and begins the process of sharpening the dagger she’d dulled out on the practice dummy like he’d shown her.

“That I have. All over the continent, many times.” He hums, watching her small hands work with the stone carefully.

“What did you do?” She spares a glance at his other dagger and the bracer on his forearm.

“I’m a bard.” He grins proudly. “I sing songs and I entertain the masses. Though, I suppose I’ve been on a bit of a break for a bit now.”

“Can you sing me a song?” Her face is open and honest, a little wary like she’s scared he’ll turn her down – like he can even do that. 

“Oh, I don’t think I have many in my repertoire fit for young ears.” He flicks her on the ear and she pouts up at him, very well aware how useless he is against that look.

“Have you ever heard of _Toss a Coin?”_ He sighs, resolving himself to an impromptu performance. Thankfully, today they’re in Valens’ yard due to his brother being out on a mission for the next three days so his lute is close by.

She gasps, “Oh! You’re _Jaskier!”_ She drops the dagger and claps her hands excitedly.

“So you’ve heard of me then, princess?” He grins past the nerves he feels, strumming a few notes to get back into it.

She watches, enraptured. “You were there on the night of – of my mother’s betrothal.”

He hums, “I was. It was – a mess, honestly, but it was fun as well despite it.”

“Sing it, come on.” She leans forward, hands gripping her knees as she waits for him to start.

So he does. He sings the classics, the one about the basilisk and then stops himself before delving into _Her Sweet Kiss_ as per tradition _._ No sense in exposing a child to his pining woes.

“Some of those were sad,” She looks outside of the door and they both realize that night has fallen while they were occupied. “Shit!” She scrambles to her feet, standing at the entrance to the barn uncertainly.

“Fuck!” He follows closely behind. “They’ll be closing the castle we have to-” There’s no way they’ll make it without being seen and perceived like lunatics. If Cirilla stays out for much longer, somebody is going to notice she’s gone and they’ll come looking and then Jaskier will be in a heap of trouble.

“If we can get past the second wall, I can get into the castle.” She reassures him, grinning like a loon.

“Come on, and _never_ tell _anyone_ about this.” He hisses and heads towards the wall, already cursing himself for even thinking about doing what comes next.

“Follow exactly where I step.” He looks at her, small and nimble but stronger than most of the children her age. “Get about halfway up then I’ll hoist you the rest of the way.”

“I can’t believe we’re about to climb the walls.” She sounds giddy even while speaking in a hushed voice.

“I am _such_ a bad influence on you, your grandmother will have me hanged.” He starts the climb onto the house that’s leaned against the wall and then helps Ciri up as well. It takes some time and a scare of her falling _twice_ but they reach over the second wall eventually. The guards on the walls don’t expect anybody so they’re able to stick to the shadows and pass by the checkpoints where they’re stationed with relative ease. They take the stone steps down from the wall in one of the towers and Jaskier is able to deliver her to the Castle before they send out a search party to look for her.

She shows him a hidden passage into the catacombs that in turn hold a way into the castle and he lets her go off on her own, trusting that she knows what to do.

“See you tomorrow, Jaskier!” She waves at him and he sighs again.

 _What a precious child._ He thinks, smiling happily. He hates to admit it but she’s grown on him. He was never a fan of children but Cirilla is so much more than a regular child. He knows that she’s special even without the added bonus of his _gifts._ He feels anger rising in his throat at the thought of Geralt rejecting his Child Surprise for so long and if the man doesn’t show up in the next year, Jaskier is certainly going to stick around and try and fill his shoes. That, or he’ll send word to Yennefer and then she’ll drag the man into town herself.

* * *

It’s three days later that he feels him before he sees him.

Jaskier is perched on top of one of the tallest buildings in town, hidden by the dusk of the day, as Geralt enters the city’s outer gates. Jaskier feels him immediately; all of his senses attuned to the way Geralt’s presence fills the air. He turns and watches the Witcher stroll into the inner walls and then – then he’s being swarmed by the Cintran guards brandishing swords. Jaskier wants to jump down and fight them all to the death but Geralt doesn’t unsheathe his weapons so Jaskier stays put and observes.

And then he remembers, Geralt is banned from entering the city of Cintra. He smacks a hand onto his forehead. Did the dolt really think he could walk into the city and go unnoticed? This shitty way of conduct is going to end Geralt someday. He gets up from his crouch and follows along the rooftops to see where they’ll take him in case a swift rescue needs to be executed.

They place Geralt into one of the towers that serve as a dungeon and Jaskier fights the primal urge to go and free him. No, Geralt must be here for a reason. The Destiny that had brought him here today has other plans for the Witcher and Jaskier is too terrified of the repercussions to intervene.

“That your Witcher?” Valens asks, jumping up onto the roof that Julian is currently on.

“Not _mine_ , but a Witcher indeed. Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.” He grunts, eyes squinted as the man, Mousesack, speaks to the Witcher in question animatedly.

“ _Your_ Witcher, then.” Valens concludes. “You going to save his sorry ass?”

“No,” He stands, turning around and jumping onto the other roof, heading back towards his brother’s house.

“Surprising.” Valens follows quietly as they run back to where his house is.

“Not really. He knows what he’s doing.” _I hope,_ he bites back, frowning at himself and his lack of faith in Geralt. “Something’s changing.” He says to switch the subject and Valens nods.

“Yes, it is. Nilfgaardians are at our door. The army is marching out in a couple of days.” Valens confirms Jaskier’s fears.

“Let’s hope the doors hold, then.”

* * *

The army marches out and Jaskier _knows_ that most of them aren’t coming back. He turns to Valens on the morning after they’d marched out and says as much.

His brother nods, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m getting Geralt; taking him and his Child Surprise and we’re leaving this place.” He responds, strapping his gear on and checking his supplies. He’s forgone the silks and the trinketry for his leathers and sturdy linen. He looks forlornly at his lute and decides that there’s no room for her where he’s heading.

“Take the lute with you to Oxenfurt. Put her in my room. I’m assuming you’re leaving as well?” He looks his brother in the eyes and is surprised to see them wet with unshed tears. “Valens-” His brother pulls him into a crushing hug and he clings back just as hard.

“Take care out there, Jules. Take care of your Witcher and of the Child Surprise but most importantly take care of yourself.” Valens whispers harshly and Jaskier swallows past the lump in his throat.

“I will.” He shudders, feeling the oppressive air of imminent disaster wash over him. “What are you going to do?”

“Like you said, go back to Oxenfurt and wait to see where we’re needed. The Brotherhood remains neutral unless the lives of the innocent threatened. What Nilfgaard is doing is – unnecessary and tyrannical. People are dying. It’s time to put a stop to it.” Valens sighs and then takes off his necklace – the little silver arrow-like symbol that his mother had given him when he’d become a Master of his own chapter – and drapes it over Jaskier’s head. “Take care of this for me, yeah?”

He looks down at the chain and tucks it under his shirt. “I will. I promise I’ll send word as soon as I can. As soon as it’s safe.”

“Good.” His brother nods and slaps him on the back. “Now go out here and get your man.”

He chokes back a laugh and runs out to get Roach ready. She senses the danger as well, she’s antsy and agitated and he has to bribe her with an apple to get the saddle on her.

“Come on girl, time to go get Geralt.” He promises and she calms at the mention of the Witcher. He tries not to feel offended because it makes sense that she’d miss him after such a long time.

He leaves her by the inner walls as he climbs. It’s still before dawn so the darkness is thick around him and the guards are few and far in-between due to so many of them being relegated towards the outer walls. The shortage of security is good for him but bad for the castle when it comes down to it. He fears that it will be detrimental to Cintra’s inevitable fall.

He hears Geralt tense before he even makes it around the corner to where he’s held captive. He takes out one of the newly-equipped throwing knives and the guard in front of the Witcher’s door bites it, dropping dead because Jaskier is in a hurry. There’s no real excuse for killing the man and he feels fucking terrible for it but he needs to get Geralt out of the dungeon and get to Cirilla before it’s too late.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice is strained as he stands in front of the bars enclosing the Witcher. They’re rather flimsy and he’s sure that the Witcher would have had no trouble getting out if he wanted to.

“Geralt.” He grunts back, crouching down and tinkering with the lock to get it open.

“Jaskier, what-” Geralt starts but Julian can’t hear him out now, not when they have no time for idle chats and heartfelt words.

“Later. Come on.” He swings the door open and leads the way out of the tower and down where Cirilla had shown him the entrance to the castle is. They find Geralt’s swords and his chest armor along the way and he only pauses for the Witcher to put it on before he’s leading him up more steps, trying to locate Cirilla by the faint glow she emits. It’s stronger today, possibly because she’s scared and it only makes Jaskier walk faster in his hurry to get to her.

He tries not to kill any more guards on the way, avoids the ones they can and lets Geralt knock out the ones that they can’t. They’re making good time and Geralt is being surprisingly obedient so Jaskier is feeling good about their current mission. 

“ _Where_ , Jaskier?” Geralt groans as they round another corner and he keeps walking.

“Picking up my star pupil, of course.” He grins to himself at Geralt’s frustrated huff. The tables have, indeed, turned.

“Not so fast.” Mousesack bursts out of one of the rooms that they’d just passed by, hands raised and ready to use his Druid magic to stop them.

“Geralt,” He waves vaguely and Geralt nods, understanding what needs to be done. He tunes out their conversation and finally reaches the room that Cirilla is in.

He opens the double doors and is faced with two burly knights staring at him in shock. He pulls back his hood quickly and Cirilla gasps in surprise.

“Julian!” She rushes past the guards and into his arms.

He hugs her tightly and buries his nose into her pale hair. “I’m glad you’re okay, princess.”

“Jaskier – grandmother, she went out there and they’re outnumbered and I don’t-” Ciri sobs into his chest and he pinches his eyes closed to fight back tears of his own. They’re all useless now and he hates the feeling with a burning passion.

“I know. I wish we could – I wish we could help but the only thing we can do now is keep you safe.” He pushes her back a little and looks over the two guards who have their swords pulled out and pointed at him.

“I’m taking her with me.” He declares, daring them to oppose him.

“Who are you?” One of the knights, the tall, dark-skinned man demands.

“Not your concern. I’m with the Witcher. We’re claiming the Law of Surprise, the child comes with us.” He pushes Cirilla behind him and towards the door as the guards look unsure.

“You know she’ll be safer with us than anywhere here. The gates won’t hold and Cintra will fall.” He hates speaking like this in front of her but it needs to be said. “Don’t try and stop us if you value your lives.”

“Julian.” Cirilla tugs on his sleeve and he turns to find her staring Geralt in the eye and the man watching her just as intently in turn. This must be a big moment for the two of them, it’s rather sweet and he hates to cut it short but.

“Mousesack?” She finally looks past the Witcher to the old man standing there.

“Go with them, Cirilla, they’re your Destiny.” The man nods and Ciri stands up straighter.

“Come on, then.” She grips his hand and twines their fingers together for comfort. “We’ll get my horse.”

They’re escorted out by the two guards and Mousesack himself while everyone in the castle looks at them with wide eyes. She takes them to the stables and one of the stable hands saddles her sandy-colored horse up. Jaskier joins her on the horse. He secures her in front of him, wrapping one his hooded cloaks around her, and leads them outside the inner walls.

Geralt looks like he’s about to complain so Jaskier rolls his eyes and whistles. The sound is immediately followed by the sound of Roach galloping in their direction. He hears Geralt breathe out heavily, eyes lighting up at the sight of his beloved steed.

“Hey, girl.” The Witcher pats her neck and the horse nips at the leather of his armor. “I know, I’m sorry. I should have come find you.” Geralt whispers, glancing in Jaskier’s direction briefly before mounting the horse.

They ride out in relative silence, heading towards Temeria by the way of Yaruga, followed only by the sound of the wind picking up and a storm on the horizon.

* * *

It’s late into the next night before they stop and make camp in a forest. By his calculations they’re somewhere near Bodrog when Cirilla starts going lax in his hold and dozing off. He decides that she’s still too shaken up by their sudden departure to be sleeping on the horse so he decides it’s time to settle for the night. He tugs a little on the reins and veers them off the path and deeper between the trees. He hears Geralt following silently and it gives him a sense of security – in himself and in the man’s dedication to being with his Child Surprise – to know that he’s still there.

“Come on, dear, let’s get you down so you can get some rest.” He jumps off at an appropriately sized clearing and holds his hands out to help her down.

“No,” She mumbles. “I can stay awake, we can keep going.” She says but she still lets him help her down.

“Oh, I know you can, love, but you see… Geralt over there is getting very tired and a sleepy Witcher is of no use to anyone. How’s he going to protect us if he’s half passed out, huh?” He croons at her, humming lowly as she sways on her feet.

“Alright, if you insist.” She stifles a yawn and does her best to help him set up a tent for her. There’s only one packed on the back of her horse and he didn’t bring another one for himself so he and Geralt will have to do with the bedrolls.

It takes him a fair bit to set up the tent because Ciri is sleepy but she insists on helping so they move slowly. But once the tent is up and her bedroll is in, she collapses into it, allowing Jaskier to drape some of the furs and a blanket over her. It’s not cold yet but the higher the moon in the sky the chillier the air will get.

“Will you be outside?” Ciri mumbles and he hums.

“We’ll be right here. I’ll wake you up in the morning, don’t worry.” He strokes a hand along the side of her head as she drifts off and gets angry at Geralt for even thinking of leaving her behind all over again.

“Can you sing me a song?” She squints up at him and he smiles at her squished cheeks and the pout directed at him.

“Of course I can.” He concedes, paying little mind to Geralt setting up the campfire in the background. He sings her the lullaby his mother used to sing to him and his brother when they were children. It’s a smooth, lilting tune about the little rabbit seeking shelter during a long winter. It’s sad, all things considered, but it’s a tune he’s fond of. Her breathing eventually evens out.

He lets her sleep, extracting himself from the tent gently and feeling a pang at how she clutches at the furs for dear life in her sleep. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and fighting the urge to shed tears.

And now for the hard part.

Turning back to Geralt, he places his hands on his hips, doing his very best to ignore the part of himself that wants to fall back into old habits of crooning praises for the Witcher and making himself as unassuming as possible.

“You two seem familiar.” Geralt breaks the silence without looking up at him from his task of stoking the fire.

“Yes, well, someone had to look out for her.” He clears his throat, deflating a little as Geralt yet again, even after everything, refuses to take him seriously.

“You should take her and move towards-” Geralt begins slowly and Jaskier’s brain starts blaring at him an angry tune so he interrupts.

“Oh, fuck off!” He grunts, “Are you really going to do this again? Now? When you’ve finally made a misguided attempt at taking responsibility? That’s low, Geralt, even for you.” He moves away from the tent, afraid that he won’t be able to control his voice if he lets his emotions take hold of him.

“Jaskier. I need to go back and help Cintra, I need-” The Witcher slams his jaw shut as Jaskier growls.

“What you _need_ to _do_ is be here for _your_ Child Surprise. Cintra will fall, Geralt. We don’t have a lot of time. The only hope they have is if this innocent, powerful, amazing little girl grows up protected and taught how to properly harness her powers.” He doesn’t realize how close he’d gotten to the other until there’s only a few scant inches between their faces. He knows that he’s spitting and hissing but he’s so very tired of Geralt trying to solve all of his problems by avoiding them.

“What are you?” Geralt growls right back.

“None of your concern. Unlike this child.” He snorts derisively and Geralt makes the mistake of trying to grab him by the arm again. He smacks the other’s hand out of the air and Geralt tries again. He ducks the other’s attempt at a grapple, smacks the flat of his palm into Geralt’s solar plexus and sends him stumbling back.

“Do _not_ try and grab me, you brute! I am not some random villager you can _bully_ into compliance.” He warns, watching as Geralt’s face contorts into a confused-looking grimace that makes him look like a kicked puppy.

“I – please.” Geralt grinds the words out like they pain him. “I’m sorry. Will you please tell me?”

Jaskier steps back as if struck. Geralt? Apologizing? Is he dreaming? He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in a movement that’s become customary as of late. “Come on, Geralt, surely you know by now.”

“You – after you left, I talked to Borch.” Geralt admits, slowly walking closer. “He said you were – that you were a part of my Destiny as well. Said I needed to come find you.” The Witcher clears his throat, looking like he’d swallowed a lemon. “But when I tried coming after you down the mountain – you were already gone. And so was Roach.”

“Yennefer was kind enough to cart us off to Oxenfurt with her wily _magics_. Nifty stuff, those portals.” He clears his throat. “Took you long enough to find us.”

“Well, _you_ found _me_.” Geralt tries for a smile but it comes across as him trying not to sneer. 

“Destiny’s prickly like that.” He scoffs, looking away and into the fire. “I was visiting my brother in Cintra, don’t flatter yourself.”

“I went to Vizima after, to their library. I tried to read up on it – but there was never anything of substance about the – _Brotherhood._ ” Geralt sighs heavily, sitting down by the fire in the packed dirt.

“That’s how we like it.” He chuckles, opting to sit down next to the other but a little further than he would have _before._ “I’m an assassin. I was trained from a young age to be a weapon in the Brotherhood’s armory – or _whatever._ I was originally supposed to be sent to Rinde as my base but I decided I liked travelling more than being stationary.”

“So you pick missions up on the road.” Geralt adds for him, tilting his head and finally meeting his eyes.

He nods. “I kill bad people. I kill those who are proven guilty and help the innocent whenever I can.”

“Hm.” Geralt grunts, seemingly satisfied with the explanation and – well, that’s a fair bit anticlimactic. “So you lied.” The Witcher speaks again after a few moments and Jaskier snorts inelegantly.

“That’s hardly the worst thing I’ve done. I told you I was a bard, and I am. I never said I wasn’t a killer.” He supposes that lying by omission is still lying but Geralt can hardly complain when he never inquired. 

Geralt’s face hardens a little, brows drawing downwards. “But you – you travelled with me when you could have been out there doing your job.”

And that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?

“Yes, I suppose that’s something to think about, hm?” He hums, ignoring the way his body wants to twitch and spasm like he’s been struck. He gets up and retrieves his bedroll, ready to spend the night sleeping off the pain.

* * *

“ _Forth right, back right, all the steps to a good fight!”_ He chants as Cirilla comes at him with a dagger. _“Twist now, duck down, don’t duck too far or you’ll lose your crown!_ ” He turns to the side, avoiding another attack and flicking her on the ear as he goes.

“Come on, princess, catch the rhythm of the fight.” He chides gently and she huffs, eyes blazing with determination as she renews her efforts to stab him.

 _“Hey, ho, up and down swiftly you go! To the side, change the tide and your enemy will die!”_ He claps his hands merrily and she bursts out into giggles.

“Oh?! Am I a joke to you? Am I a comedian?” He grins, tugging at the hand holding the dagger and trapping her into a loose headlock. She immediately drops her foot onto his, plants an elbow into his gut and twists out the arm over her chest until she’s free.

“Good! Much better.” He laughs easily and she releases him. “Had enough morning exercise?”

“I’d like to do more but…” She shrugs, “I know we have to go.”

“Well, not before you’ve had some bread and water to fill your belly.” He declares, turning around to see Geralt emerging from the patch of trees he has been hiding in for the past several minutes as Jaskier went through their usual practice routine with Ciri. He raises an eyebrow at the man and holds out a hand, accepting the newly-refilled water supply.

“I don’t think I can eat,” Ciri admits and Jaskier’s harsh frown softens as he looks upon her.

“Oh, dear.” He mumbles dragging her in for a one-armed hug, “You have to keep your strength up if we are to travel _and_ train at the same time. Do me the favor and eat, princess.” He croons, running a hand through her pale hair.

She sniffles a little and nods against him, “Okay.”

“Excellent.” He moves and she remains latched onto his side. Chuckling, he proceeds to take out the bread from the bag of supplies strapped to her horse. He takes out the loaf and tears off a bit for her; he takes mercy and cuts a piece of cheese for her to eat as well. They’ll have to ration the food better but they’ll be fine if Geralt or he hunt when they settle into a camp.

“Eat, I’ll go pack the tent.” He lifts her up onto the horse and she sways a little before settling sideways.

“You’ve been teaching her how to fight,” Geralt hums, oddly, not sounding like he minds much.

He looks up at the Witcher and nods. “Well, after learning how to pickpocket and cheat at card games, there was nothing else left to teach her and she’s not particularly interested in learning the lute.”

Geralt’s face goes through a series of emotions – far more than he’s ever openly shown and Jaskier thinks that, perhaps, Geralt is trying to be better.

“I can’t imagine that the Queen was happy about this.” Geralt grunts and inches forward to help him collapse the tent.

“Yes, I can’t imagine she would have been. If she knew.” He snorts at Geralt’s surprised grunt. “You can’t honestly believe I’d ask for her permission. No, Ciri has been sneaking off to meet me in the city for weeks now. I don’t know how she does it but I suppose the wartime is a busy time for a Queen.”

“How did you even find her?” Geralt inquires, speaking softly so that they don’t disturb the child in question’s tentative meal.

“She found me, actually. Bumped into me in the street, running away from trouble.” He chuckles, remembering the band of children chasing her.

“That seems familiar,” Geralt hums and Jaskier catches the tail end of the Witcher’s smile.

“There are worse people to look up to, I suppose.” He sneers, teasing this time and Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Come on, time to move.” The Witcher pats him on the shoulder in passing and Jaskier takes a deep breath. _So far, so good._

“Come on, dear, are you done?” He calls, coming closer to the horse with the tent and the covers in his arms.

“Mm!” She nods, wiping her mouth off and handing him back the water.

“That’s the spirit,” He pats her knee and stashes the gear away. “Scoot,” He hops onto the horse behind her and watches as Geralt covers their tracks before mounting Roach.

* * *

They push a little further to get ahead of the impending war. They’re in Kernow when they hear word of Cintra’s fall.

They’re in a tavern, letting Ciri eat her fill of actually-seasoned stew when his ears catch a conversation from across the room. He looks at Geralt to confirm that he’s hearing it as well and the Witcher nods.

“ _The Lioness is dead, they say. Cintra’s done for.”_ The man speaking says forlornly. “ _Nilfgaard is marching towards Sodden, they’ll pass over into Temeria there.”_

He clenches his hands in his lap, looking at Cirilla with sorrow in his heart. Queen Calanthe is dead and they’ll have to tell this innocent child that she’s lost the only remaining blood she’s had. He closes his eyes as Geralt knocks his leg with his own under the table, hooking is ankle around Jaskier’s in a silent offer of comfort.

He meets the Witcher’s eyes and they seem as sorrowful as Jaskier’s heart feels. They’ll need to have this conversation tonight.

Cirilla perks up suddenly, looking sharply towards him and frowning. “You’re sad.” She accuses, stopping the frantic shoveling of food into her mouth. “Why?”

“People get sad, Fiona.” He uses the name she’d chosen as her alias while on the road. In the last time they’d gotten her a cap and some clothes and if she keeps her voice to herself she can pass off as just another child travelling with a bard and a Witcher.

“You’re rarely sad. I don’t – I don’t feel it coming from you often anymore. You were sad when I first met you but you got better.” She grips one of his hands with her smaller, smoother one. She’s begun developing calluses from the daggers that are too big for her grip. She’ll grow into them. And into the swords she will inevitably wield.

“I’ll tell you later, once we’re settled in the inn. How about a happier story first?” He doesn’t want to think that she could sense his longing and his pain but then he wouldn’t be able to think about how she’d made him happy. He’s never really wanted kids but Ciri is, well, very _special_.

“I love your stories, you know that.” She smiles reassuringly and he chuckles, that makes one of them.

“I do. And the attention is much appreciated!” He launches into a story about how he went sailing along the shores and met mermaids – not sirens – and had a fun time sharing tales with them. He makes it out to be an exaggerated fabrication of the actual event that had happened in his youth. She settles down and listens raptly and if he’s not wrong, he has Geralt’s undivided attention as well.

And they still haven’t talked properly. Geralt hasn’t apologized and Jaskier hasn’t asked him to. Apart from the usual campfire talks that consist of Jaskier telling stories and trying to educate Ciri on all things assassin and Geralt reluctantly telling stories about his travels, they haven’t had the time to talk by themselves. It’s not like they can just send Cirilla away with the words _the grown-ups have to talk, not now, princess_. No, Jaskier doesn’t think he’d ever do that to her. So _their_ conversation will have to wait.

“Have you ever been sailing, Geralt?” She turns towards the Witcher, wide eyes earnest and curious and Geralt falters a little under the gaze. He knows that the stone-wall that is the Witcher is being chipped away at by Ciri’s sweet and gentle nature. It’s endearing and it makes Jaskier warm from the inside.

Geralt grunts, “I’m not a fan of boats.”

“Aw.” She coos like Geralt is a particularly adorable kitten. “I’m sure you’d enjoy the open seas.”

“Maybe one day.” The Witcher hums, glancing briefly at Jaskier before turning back to Ciri.

She proceeds to tell them about the trip they’d taken and how she loved the dolphins they’d seen. They both listen to her raptly, letting her be happy with her memories for now, and hating that they’ll have to ruin her young childhood later tonight.

When they do tell her, she doesn’t cry. Her face hardens and she nods, looking out the inn’s window while he and Geralt stand there looking at her small frame.

“I’ve had dreams about this, nightmares. I thought I would be able to fight with her when the time came. But – but I know I wasn’t ready.” She turns her sad eyes back onto Jaskier and he feels his heart drop into his gut, pumping heavily and bearing the pain.

“It’s why I asked you to teach me, I thought that if I can get at least a little good at fighting that she’d allow me to join her.” The princess chuckles sardonically and shakes her head. “A childish dream. Thank you, for telling me.”

“It,” Geralt clears his throat. “It brought us no joy to take you away from your home. And even now, the decision of telling you weighed on us heavily. But we thought you wanted to know.” The Witcher explains when he notices that Jaskier’s words are failing him.

“Do you need some time alone?” Jaskier asks gently and she shakes her head, opening up her arms and inviting Jaskier in for a hug. He obliges, sitting next to her on the bed and letting her cling to him. “It’s alright, little cub, you can cry if you want. It doesn’t make you weak, it makes you human. It means you feel things deeply and that you’re flawed but that you’re human.” He reassures her and she nods minutely.

She proceeds to shuffle until she’s laying her head in his lap and bringing his hand up to run through her tangled hair. He obliges, humming a tune low and enchanting as her cheeks become wet with silent tears. It will take her a while to process this, he knows, but he’ll do his damned best to make it as painless as possible.

Geralt stays a silent sentinel near the door, watching them with a keen eye and keeping an ear out for trouble. Once she’s asleep, the Witcher visibly relaxes a little.

“You’re good with her.” Geralt intones, eyes boring into him and Ciri.

“I can’t say I’ve had prior experience so,” He shrugs, “It was an acquired skill. She’s eager to learn and a gentle soul in general. She’s very adamant about proving her independence so she doesn’t like to be babied. But she lacks the familial attention. A gentle touch and a kind word go a long way.” Thinking about it now, he doesn’t see how the Lioness of Cintra would have been very affectionate with Cirilla. The Queen always seemed cold and ruthless, a woman carved out from an iceberg to fight wars efficiently. No, he can’t imagine that the Queen was an affectionate woman even with sweet little Ciri.

“You’re good at affection.” Geralt hums lowly, almost too quiet for him to hear.

“Despite my nature as a killer, I do know what affection is.” He chuckles, avoiding Geralt’s eye lest he let some of it slip though his barriers. “I am part-bard, after all. Bards are dependent on love and affection, it is their – well,” He clears his throat, “Amongst their biggest motivators and inspirations.”

_Too close, fall back, abandon ship._

“Hm,” Geralt nods to himself. “I should be offended that she likes you better than me but, you’ve earned her affections fair and square.”

He chokes back an overly-loud laugh that wants to escape him. “Give it time, I’m sure you’ll win her over with your shining personality.”

“Well, it hardly compares to yours so I won’t get my hopes up.” Geralt’s words are teasing like they have never really been. Sure they’d had light-hearted and friendly conversations before but there was always a layer of separation between them that Jaskier couldn’t burst through.

And now, he’s afraid that it was a layer he’d put there with all of his lies and omissions.

_Excellent, another thing to worry about for all eternity._

* * *

They’re somewhere near Vidort when all of Jaskier’s senses start going off at once. He tugs the horse to a stop, Ciri complains at the sudden jostling because she’d been napping.

“Hush now.” He hisses quietly, turning to Geralt to see if he’s sensing anything.

The Witcher stares at him and nods and Jaskier jumps off the horse. “Stay here, I’ll go scout ahead.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns but Jaskier waves him off.

“I’ll be careful,” He promises and strikes a course ahead of them, weaving through the trees until he finds one solid enough to climb. He rushes into the branches and waits until the footsteps grow closer. He tilts his head and listens. There’s a flutter of wings and the stomping of hooves, huffed breaths and the unmistakable sound of sharp blades.

He grins, taking one of the throwing knives and launching it downwards. It imbeds itself next to the person’s face, into the tree behind him, sending them all scattering for cover in a frenzy. He jumps down into the cleared out space, arms spread wide.

“Funny seeing you here, brother.” He cackles as Valens pulls the knife free from the tree and the travelers start emerging from their hiding places with grumbled complaints.

“Always so theatrical.” Valens shakes his head, handing him back his knife.

“You’re going to Sodden, I take it?” He tilts his head towards Master Aerest as his grandfather emerges from the crowd.

“Julian,” The old Master, rarely seen out of his Oxenfurt keep, looks rather uncomfortable to be travelling.

“Master, good to see your legs still serve their purpose.” He gripes as a hand smacks the back of his head.

“Jules, behave.” His mother chides and he turns to look at her. It’s actually been a fair few years since he’s last seen her due to her being stationed south where he doesn’t trudge often.

“Momma,” His cheeks hurt from how wide he’s smiling as she embraces him.

“Hello, darling, it’s been too long.” She pinches his cheek and he whines. “Have I not told you to visit?”

“You know I don’t like the south,” He bats her hand away, “Their food sucks and all they wear is black. Nothing but trouble.”

“As are you, but we still keep _you_ around.” Valens scoffs and their mother tutts.

“How many are here?” He looks around at the shifting mass of assassins, most of them Oxenfurt-trained but some from distant schools.

“A small fortune,” Master Aerest hums, “Anyone that could be spared. So that’s everyone but the one’s left to teach and to hold down the home forts.”

“Will it be enough?” He gulps, feeling his mother squeeze his shoulder reassuringly.

“Even with our senses we cannot know that.” Aerest shakes his head. “The sorcerers and sorceresses have gathered at Sodden Hill, we’re joining to try and hold Nilfgaard’s forces off there until the other armies arrive.”

He sucks in a sharp breath as the sense of dread settles in his stomach. “Yennefer.”

“I’d think that she’s there, yes.” The old Master nods and Jaskier suddenly has the urge to join them on their journey. Completely unrelated to Yen’s safety, of course.

“Shit, wait here.” He smacks a palm against his forehead and dashes off in the direction of where he’d left _his_ travelling companions. “I’ll be right back!”

“Geralt!” He cups his hands around his mouth and yells. “Geralt, it’s fine, come here!”

He hears the sound of hooves against the dry ground again and turns to see the two coming from between the denser growth of trees where they’d been hidden.

“What happened?” Geralt grunts, eyes squinted and his sword hand twitching.

“Oh, it’s the assassins. They’ve gathered and they’re heading for Sodden. The sorcerers – they’re. Geralt,” He pauses, coming closer to the Witcher and looking up at him with his eyes pleading. “I have a bad feeling about this, Geralt. I have a bad feeling about Yen and Triss and the whole lot of them.”

Geralt’s face hardens further, “Hm.”

“Julian? What’s going on?” Ciri sounds meek as she looks between them.

“We’re going to take a little detour to help a friend.” He declares, not looking at Geralt as he says it. “Come on.” He grasps the reins of Ciri’s horse and leads them back to where he’d left the Brotherhood.

He meets his brother’s eye first and the look in them speaks a thousand words that he’d rather not hear so he looks away before he can blush bright red. He meets his mother’s eyes next instead and that’s not much better either.

“Oh, dear.” She mutters, coming closer. “Who do we – _oh, dear._ Princess Cirilla.” His mother inclines her head in a needless bow that makes Ciri squirm.

“Just Fiona’s fine, please.” Ciri mumbles and Jaskier catches her hand in a gentle squeeze.

“As you wish,” She then turns to Geralt with a critical eye that only a mother could pull off. “Butcher of Blaviken.”

“Just Geralt is fine,” The Witcher in question grunts and Jaskier forces back a laugh at his mother’s pleased smile.

“Meera Pankratz, at your service. Though, if we’re all so familiar already, I suppose _Meera_ will do.” She winks at Jaskier and nudges him with an elbow, so completely embarrassing that Jaskier wishes he had the ability to evaporate on the spot.

“Well, that’s enough of that!” He claps his hands together, “Weren’t we heading for Sodden?”

“Well, _we_ were.” Valens butts in, eyeing Geralt just as critically as their mother had. “Last I remember you were on your way to keeping this child safe and rescuing the Witcher’s arse.”

“Well, obviously, I already did that.” He pouts, rolling his eyes.

“Tell me, then. Why are you so eager to get back to danger?” Aerest grumbles, already moving past them as the crowd starts their journey again.

“Because a friend of ours might be in danger.” He admits, wringing his hands together uncertainly. He’s half afraid that the moment they set their eyes on Yen’s mighty frame that things will go back to the way they were and that he’ll lose the Witcher and this easy camaraderie he’s had with him lately forever. But his pining woes aren’t worth losing Yennefer over.

“The witch must mean a lot to you, then.” Valens hums.

Jaskier hates him a little in that moment. Because Valens knows. He knows how important Yennefer is to him and how much she’s kept him sane in his time after the disaster at the Dragon Mountains. But he also knows that Geralt has no idea so the bastard is trying to provoke him.

He growls, “As do all of my friends, _Val_.”

“Aw, Jules, no need to get so protective. I just mean that if you’re risking your life for her then she,” Valens gets cut off by their mother tugging sharply on his ear.

“That’s enough out of you, leave your brother alone.” She scolds the other and Jaskier cannot express in words how much he loves his mother. She tugs the older of the brothers off to the front of the line and Jaskier breathes out.

“Well, there’s certainly a resemblance.” Geralt mumbles quietly and Ciri giggles.

“Yes, yes. Laugh it up.” He groans, turning around to mount the horse behind Ciri again.

“Come now, _Jules,_ I meant nothing bad. They seem like lovely people.” Geralt’s voice is teasing enough to make him blush.

“Gods, that’s embarrassing.” He urges the horse away from Geralt who’s chuckling lowly at his dismay.

* * *

They reach Sodden within two days worth of travel. They come upon the old castle filled with powerful people and those of the non-magic kind late on the second day and wait in the forest until someone comes to greet them.

He stands in front of the crowd of assassins, all of the silent and anticipatory, accepting that many in their ranks will die within the next few days but willing to do what is needed. Jaskier admires them greatly, wishes that he could stay and fight but he knows that now, more than ever, he needs to stick by Geralt’s side.

Tissaia, the woman in charge of Aretuza herself, comes down to greet them. She’s flanked by Triss on one side and a sorcerer he doesn’t recognize on the other.

“Master Aerest, what brings you to this neck of the woods?” Tissaia asks pleasantly, her cool demeanor betrayed by the way one of her hands grips the other nervously.

“Tissaia, as lovely as ever and just as bright. You know we’re here to lend a hand.” The old Master straightens up, his swallow-tailed coat swishing as he steps out forward. “You know your numbers won’t be enough. Not with the magics they’re using.”

Her brows draw closer, the grip of her hands becoming white-knuckled. She looks the small horde of assassins over, eyes only briefly lingering over Geralt and Ciri and passing over Jaskier entirely. She nods – a silent admittance of inadequacy that must pain her.

“We can’t place you all but I trust that you can make your own camp. We’ll talk strategy tomorrow.” She turns, opening a portal for herself and the young sorcerer while Triss remains.

The assassins start moving all at once and he drops down from the horse to greet the lingering sorceress.

“Lady Merigold.” He smiles, a little sad and uncertain whether it’s welcome.

She rolls her eyes, “Jaskier. Should have known you were more than just an excellent bard.” She allows him to take her hand and kiss the back of it. She looks up and nods at the Witcher, “Geralt. I see you’ve finally come to your senses.”

“Hn,” Geralt grumbles, driving Roach forward and motioning for Ciri to do the same.

“As wordy as ever.” She chuckles and Jaskier bites back a grin. “Yen will be happy to see you.”

“I should hope so.” He chuckles despite the unease he feels. “It’s been some time. How is she?”

“She’s doing well.” Triss hums, “As well as anyone can with a large battle hanging over their heads.”

“Well enough, then.” He sighs, wishing that he didn’t have to be here. Alas.

“Come on, we can portal up the hill.” She nudges his shoulder with her own and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Thank you for the offer but I need to keep an eye on the princess. I don’t trust Geralt to know how to take care of a child.” He winks at the Witcher when he turns back to him with a glare.

“That’s fair, he’s not of the gentle sort.” She pats his back and opens up a portal for herself. “I’ll see you up there, then.”

She’s gone before he can say anything else. _Gods,_ having powers like that must be so convenient. But, then again, he doesn’t really know what all goes into it. Maybe it takes an immense amount of power for them to open up a single portal. His only point of comparison is Yennefer and she’s always made it look so effortless.

“Jaskier,” Ciri whines and he snaps his wandering thoughts back together, humming at her as she holds out a hand.

“What is it, dear?” he squeezes the offered hand, tracing gentle circles across her knuckles.

“Everyone here is sad.” She says and Jaskier’s heart breaks all over again.

“I know, darling, I know. But it’s how adults are sometimes. They all know that they’re here to either win or die and it makes them sad.” He sees no sense in lying to her and Geralt shoots him a curious look over the top of her head.

“I wish we could help.” She admits and Jaskier nods.

“And one day you will. You need to get stronger and learn how to control your powers and then not even the armies of Nilfgaard will be able to stop you.” He promises, firmly believing that once she comes into her powers fully, into being the Queen that she was destined to be, nobody and nothing will be able to stand in her way.

“Careful what you promise, Jaskier, she might just take you down in the process.” Geralt chuckles as Ciri gasps, clinging to his hand with an offended look.

“I would _never!”_ She promises, eyes so determined for someone so young.

“And I believe you. Have some faith, Geralt.” He chides easily, “She’ll take us _both_ down in the process.”

Geralt’s laugh makes him feel pleasant and fuzzy on the inside, the feeling overtaking the worry that has settled there over the past couple of days.

* * *

“Jaskier!” Yennefer cheers as she spots him, rushing to trap him into a firm hug. He barely has enough time to grab her waist to stop them from toppling over as she enthusiastically clings to him. He laughs, a little teary-eyed at her obvious relief at seeing him.

“When Cintra fell – I thought you were.” She takes a deep breath and releases him, gripping his face with both of her hands. “You got out. I didn’t have the time to try and locate you and I was worried that you’d.” She breaks off, eyes closing briefly as she composes herself.

“Hey, now.” He croons. “No tears shed over little ol’ me. I’m like a rat, once I’m burrowed in somewhere, there’s no getting rid of me. I made it out a day early and with some added company.” He waves a hand behind himself where Geralt is shuffling awkwardly next to Roach and Ciri is looking up at Yennefer a little awed.

“Geralt,” She nods her greeting at the Witcher and earns back the customary grunt of acknowledgement from the man. Her eyes then find Ciri and widen.

“Jaskier, you-” She pats his cheek with a grin. “Good lad, good.”

He rolls his eyes violently. “She found me one day and I haven’t been able to get rid of her since.” He winks at Ciri who huffs at him, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’ve been training her in fighting but there’s only so much I can do when her powers are something so far out of my reach.” He takes in a sharp breath, releasing Yen fully to look her in the eye. They’re in a pretty secluded place, at the bottom of one of the towers of the old keep that Triss had pointed them to so he feels comfortable talking to her about this here.

“I have a bad feeling about this, Yen. Whatever’s going to happen – it won’t be good.” He says, a little useless.

“Obviously,” She snorts, presumably amused at his flailing. “It’s war, Jaskier, war is never good.”

“No, but – but this is in regards to – to you.” He admits that his bullshit _gifts_ are making his entire subconscious vibrate with bad omens that seem to be drawn to Yennefer.

“You shouldn’t be telling me this, Jaskier.” She shakes her head. “Whatever’s going to happen, will happen with or without your input.”

“Yen, please.” He pleads, gripping her shoulders. “Please, come with us. We’re heading to Temeria and then eventually towards the Blue Mountains. Come with us and you can – you can teach Ciri, you can teach her how to control her powers.”

“You know I can’t do that, Jaskier.” She sighs, looking over the princess and the Witcher again. “I can’t leave Tissaia here alone; I can’t abandon the others like that.”

He sighs, thumping his forehead against hers. “I know. I wish you didn’t feel this intense sense of loyalty but, alas.”

“After, if I’m still interested, I’ll find you.” She chuckles and flicks him on the nose. “Come on, you three must be starving. I hear your brother and mother are here. I’d love to meet them.”

“Oh, Gods, no! You will do no such thing!” He waves his hands around frantically as he follows her towards the place that the assassins have claimed as their own.

He catches Geralt’s eye as he passes the Witcher and they’re – well, the look in them is very intense. He can’t really place it but he’s not sure it’s something he’s seen before. He dismisses it, silently thankful that Yennefer has elected to ignore the Witcher altogether.

* * *

He sits by the fire in the assassin encampment and watches as Yennefer talks to Ciri about something animatedly. The young princess seems enamored with whatever story is being told and Jaskier feels a piece of him settle at the sight. The Child Surprise is finally talking to someone who understands the power coursing through her and Jaskier is happy that she’ll at least have _some_ idea about it.

Geralt clears his throat next to him, tugging Jaskier out of his sentimental ponderings.

“You two seem – close.” The Witcher grinds out and Jaskier chuckles.

“After we’d gotten over the initial animosity we found that we had a fair bit of mutual respect for each other as well as a lot in common. More than I’d thought, really.” He smiles; remembering the early days at their stint in Oxenfurt where they’d drank themselves silly in the library and read lewd books out loud to each other for laughs.

“You are _really_ close, then,” Geralt hushes and Jaskier turns to face him. He observes the Witcher as the Witcher stares intently at his tankard of strong ale. The people around them cheer, someone starts singing, Geralt remains unmoved.

“She’s the first real friend other than you that I’ve had in years.” He looks down, fiddles with the cufflink of his dark shirt where it closes over the edge of the bracer.

Geralt’s frame relaxes minutely, leaning to the side until he’s leaning against his shoulder and Jaskier allows himself to enjoy the casual closeness.

“Kaer Morhen, huh?” Geralt asks after a few more moments and it’s curious, really. It’s as if Geralt has finally realized that he has the right to ask him questions, to inquire about his past and his motivations.

He blushes a little at that. It was an off-the-top-of-the-head thing that he’d said because the Witcher school fortress is one of the safest places on earth and the last place that Nilfgaard would reach if they get past Sodden.

“Seems like the right place to go.” He shrugs, “We don’t have to if you don’t want. If it’s too – I don’t know, personal or invasive or if I’ve stepped out of line-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunts to stop his rambling. “It’s fine. You’re right. It would be a good place to train Ciri at and it’s safe.”

“Right, good.” He winces at how croaky he sounds. He can’t help it. He’s sitting here, surrounded y the best killers on the Continent and surrounded by family, with his friends nearby and he feels – he feels settled. Even if tomorrow he dies with the rest of them, right at this moment, he feels good, happy.

He catches his mother’s eye across the bonfire and she raises an eyebrow at him, twitching her head in Geralt’s direction with clear intent and he fights the automatic response of denial that wants to rise from within. It’s no use, his mother knows him too well. She can probably see it written clear on her face.

“I wish we could stick around for the battle.” He wrings his hands together and Geralt hums.

“You said it yourself. Ciri takes priority, we have to keep her safe.” Geralt confirms what he already knows.

Aerest claps his hands together, standing up and drawing everyone’s attention to him.

“Masters, Mercenaries, Disciples, Initiates and Mentors. And friends that have joined us.” Aerest speaks loud and solemn. “The battle before us is unlike the ones we have faced so far. We prefer the battles lead with subtlety and from the shadows, not brute force in broad daylight. But we have been left with no choice but to fight like they do.” Aerest’s sigh is audible and heavy.

“This will be a hard battle and I will not lie to you, many will die. But they will die serving the Creed in a way that it was meant to be served – for the good of humanity and the world that we live in. And for that, I salute you brave soldiers for coming here, joining me and heeding the call of those in need like the Creed has taught you. Those who pass will be celebrated by those who live and they shall live on in their memories. We believe ourselves redeemers, avengers, saviours. Let’s make sure we live up to those noble titles! _Na zdrowie!_ ” The Master finishes his speech and the crowd of assassins erupts into cheer despite the reality of the speech.

“He was always rather good at those.” He shakes his head, leaning further into Geralt’s side as the Witcher hums.

“We should get Ciri to bed, she looks tired.” Geralt nods in the direction of the princess where she’s dozing off against Yen’s side while the sorceress pets her hair with a wounded look on her face. He can only imagine what’s going on through Yennefer’s head at the moment.

He hums, “Leave her with Yen for a bit longer, she needs this.”

“Yen or Ciri?” Geralt asks and Jaskier just hums again, his eyes lowering and his thoughts swimming freely for the first time in a while.

“At this rate, I’ll be carrying both of you off to bed.” Geralt chuckles kindly, voice low and gruff.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” He says unthinkingly, easily, without a worry that the words might be perceived in a way that is a bit more than friendly. Instead, he lets his eyes close fully and his body goes lax in response, laying limp and leaned against Geralt’s solid body that radiates warmth like a furnace.

* * *

“Be careful, dear,” His mother cups his cheek, a sad smile on her face. “We trained you for everything, make use of that knowledge.”

“I will, momma, I promise.” He lets her pull him into a hug.

It’s the day after the large bonfire and everyone is somber. Those with the gifts to do so can hear the thunderous marching of the armies in the distance; it’s inescapable, the inevitability of the fight.

“Send an eagle Kaer Morhen’s way once the battle is over, please.” He grips forearms with his brother who then embraces him as well.

“First chance we get,” Valens promises and pats him on the back heartily.

He turns to the Master Assassin that has taught him most of what he knows, his grandfather and one of the oldest Masters at the Oxenfurt _Academy_. “Grandfather,” He smiles, sad and resigned.

“Julian.” His grandfather nods. “I’m proud of you.” Aerest clears his throat. “You’ve always been one of our alumni but you’ve exceeded every expectation with what you did, what you’re doing and what you are. We’re all proud to call you an assassin of the Oxenfurt _Academy_. And if you ever wish for it, there’s a spot open for you to become a Master there as well.”

He gulps down the tears. His grandfather wasn’t a man of many kind words and to hear him speaking like this, well – this might just be their last goodbye. He nods, ducking away from the prying eyes of his peers and Yen who’s standing near.

“Thank you, Master. This – it means a lot.” He admits and Aerest drops a hand to his shoulder, squeezing in reassurance.

“Go on now, get the child to safety. They’re coming.” The old Masters eyes flash amber and he turns to speak to the assassins.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer’s hand is gentle on his wrist and he nods to himself, allowing her to drag him away finally lest he do something dumb like join his brothers and sisters.

“I hate this,” He voices uselessly and she hums.

“I know.”

“I wish I could help.” He sighs deeply, inhaling the scent of gooseberries and lilac that’s tied to her so firmly in his mind.

“I know.” She repeats, dragging him over to where Geralt and Ciri are waiting.

“Yen, be careful, please.” He shakes his head. “I feel like a right idiot repeating myself all the time but I need you to – to listen this time, yeah?”

She eyes him, her lids smothered in dark kohl and her lips red. The violet eyes flit between his own and behind him to where the Sodden keep is. She nods. “I’ll try. But I’ll also do whatever it takes to stop Nilfgaard.”

“I know,” He says this time, tugging her into a hug. “Come find us.”

“I will,” She promises pointing to the golden ribbon still tied around her wrist that she’d pilfered from him back in Oxenfurt. “I’ll always be able to, remember?”

“Yeah, yes. Alright. I’m ready.” He straightens up, tugging his newly-acquired swallow-tailed coat tighter around himself.

“Good.” She waves a hand and opens a portal. “I can’t open on directly into Kaer Morhen because it’s warded against various magics. The closest I can get is outside of Aedd Gynvael. It’s about a day’s worth of riding out.”

“We should be fine,” He takes out the furs from Cirilla’s horse and drapes them over the girl’s shoulders in preparation for the chilly air. They’ll need to get her some thicker clothes fit for mountain weather eventually. He mounts the horse and looks over Sodden one last time.

“Good luck, Yen.” Ciri mumbles, holding out a hand that Yennefer squeezes with a gentle smile on her face.

“You as well, little lady, Gods know you'll need it with those two idiots around.” Yennefer winks and Geralt huffs in the background.

“Geralt,” Yennefer says, speaking directly to the Witcher for the first time since they’ve arrived. “You know I don’t hold it against you, right? I know what you were trying to accomplish but _I’m_ not the one that Destiny intended for you. Not really, not in the way that matters.”

Geralt sucks in a sharp breath and nods. “I know. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Good luck.”

“Go on, the keep awaits.” She shoos them away with a stern expression, not letting anything slip through her mask of dogged bravery.

They step through the portal and it closes behind them, not even allowing him one last look at the sorceress that has become one of his best friends. Destiny is a funny thing.

“Cold as balls here,” He grumbles, huddling closer to Cirilla and making her giggle. A large, fur-lined cloak gets dropped over his shoulders and he looks to the side where Geralt is closing one of the bags mounted onto Roach.

“Thank you,” He mumbles, trying hard not to inhale the scent that lingers on the coat.

“Hm,” Geralt moves first, tugging Roach around and in the direction of the Witcher keep.

The cloak is big enough that he is able to drop the excess over Ciri’s smaller frame as well and she snuggles back into his chest as they ride.

They decide not to stop until they’re at least most of the way there since they’re burning daylight quickly. So once they do pause for a bit to give the horses a break, Ciri is eager to stretch her legs. She hops off the horse before Jaskier can and does a few stretches that Jaskier had shown her previously. She doesn’t speak and neither does Geralt, for once, Jaskier doesn’t feel the need to break the silence.

It’s been approximately six hours since they left Sodden. The armies of Nilfgaard must already be at their gates. He rubs a thumb over the necklace his brother had given him, praying even though he isn’t a praying man that they’re okay.

“Jaskier,” Geralt, suddenly by his side intones gently as if he wants to comfort him.

He shakes his head and allows the Witcher to help him down from the horse. “Nothing I can do, I know. All of the training and all of the _gifts_ in the world and I’m powerless the one time it really matters.”

“You’re where you need to be.” Geralt hums and he scoffs at the other.

“Well, aren’t you _Mister Destiny_ all of a sudden.” He crosses his arms over his chest and watches as Cirilla runs through dagger sets and drills he’s taught her so far.

“I’ve learned that going against Destiny is… not good. I’ve learned the hard way.” Geralt’s eyes are soft again, his impressive eyebrows relaxed for once and a genuine smile makes its way onto the Witcher’s lips.

He inhales through his nose, nodding. Geralt’s right. This is where he needs to be. Besides, he’d never leave –

He sidesteps, gripping Ciri’s wrist and twisting it behind her back. “Nice try, dear.” He chuckles as she whines.

“One of these days I’ll teach you how not to stomp around that loud.” He releases her arm and she pouts petulantly. “Oh, what? Was I supposed to let her stab me?” He complains at Geralt who is giving him a disapproving stare.

“Unlike you, I can’t-”

 _Oh, shit._ He pushes Ciri out of the way and into Geralt’s arms just as a portal opens up _above_ them and spits out a barely-conscious body of none other than Yennefer. He has just enough time to plant his feet before she’s dropped into his arms. It’s a good thing she’s so light otherwise they _both_ would have gone down. He still hisses sharply as some of his straps tug painfully against his body though.

“ _Gods.”_ Geralt grunts in the background but he’s too busy lowering her to the ground to pay attention.

“Shit, _shit.”_ He hushes, noticing the stab wound in her stomach and the way that her hands seem to be blistering red. He’s afraid to touch her but if he doesn’t do anything soon then she’ll-

“Found you,” Yennefer croaks, unfocused eyes meeting his.

“You did, Yen, you did.” He chokes out as he looks up at Geralt for help. The Witcher is already moving towards his bag with the various potions and salves.

He looks down and sees that Yen’s already passed out fully. Ciri comes to kneel next to him, gripping his hand in support and Geralt quickly deals with the stab wound. The Witcher applies the salve and the bleeding stops immediately. It looks like it was made by a small knife and it won’t need stitches which is a silver lining. Besides that, they don’t know what else is wrong with her. The same salve gets applied to her hands and Jaskier takes care to wrap them in the clean cloth he carries with him for purposes like these.

“Come on, let’s get her up on the horse.” Geralt hefts her and walks over to Ciri’s horse.

“Uh, shouldn’t you be the one to – you know.” He waves uncertainly and Geralt shakes his head.

“At this point, you’re closer to her than I ever was. Ciri can ride with me.” Geralt waits for him to mount the steed before they arrange Yennefer in front of him comfortably so that he can ride without Yen falling off.

They ride onwards with renewed vigor, eager to get to the mountains as soon as possible.

The giant structures of the Kaer Morhen keep would be more impressive if parts of it weren’t torn down and broken through. He doesn’t ask what happened, it’s not his primary concern right now. Instead, he follows Geralt up the winding path and through the large gates that the Witcher has to open with a directed gust of his power. The place is abandoned, of course, so it will take time to remake it into something livable but for now – it’s a safe space for them to rest finally.

Geralt leads them to one of the intact buildings that’s a tall tower with a single room on each floor. He helps Geralt get the limp sorceress off the horse and then follows as the Witcher leads to a room that looks like it could have been dedicated to healing at one point. There are still vials of liquids and herbs littering the workshop and he observes the place as Geralt lays Yennefer down onto the bed in the corner of the room.

“This place seems almost intact.” He mumbles, settling down into a chair next to the bed.

“Me and some of the remaining Witchers spend the winter up here. Not much evil to fight when the ground is covered in snow and you can barely see from the hale.” Geralt informs him, mixing something up into a clean vial. The liquid takes on a rather magenta color before settling into a clear red.

“Pinch her nose and tilt her head back.” Geralt instructs and Jaskier obeys, watching as the Witcher pours the concoction into her mouth.

“Is she going to be okay?” Ciri approaches slowly, hands gripping the furs still thrown over her shoulders.

“Yes, I think she’ll be fine.” Geralt stands back up and nods, briefly running a large hand over Ciri’s head in an adorable attempt at being affectionate. “I’m going to go get the horses into the stables. Watch over her.”

“Yeah, alright.” He slumps into the chair and Ciri comes to sit next to Yen’s hand on the edge of the bed.

“I wonder what happened.” Ciri mumbles, running a finger over the edge of one of the cloths wrapped around Yen’s hand.

“Knowing her, she’d probably done something stupid and self-sacrificing.” He chuckles, rubbing a hand over his face. What a fucking day.

“She’s really brave.” Ciri notes. “All of you are so brave. I wish I-” She stops herself, shaking her head.

“Darling,” He croons, catching her hand between his palms. “You _are_ brave. You just haven’t had the chance to prove it to yourself yet. But I know that you are. No other princess is out in the world with a Witcher and an Assassin, travelling the land and preparing to train until she becomes the best of them all.”

“I wish I didn’t have to.” She says, nimble fingers tracing over some of the scars on his hands. “I wish I was normal.”

“Being normal is overrated, darling. The best people are the ones who have to prove themselves and who are special.” He nods towards the door where Geralt is in the courtyard. “Just look at our Witcher friend and Yen. They’re both exceptional people even if they’re as stubborn as mules.”

“Thank you,” Her eyes are determined again. “Thank you for taking me in, Jules, I’m glad that you didn’t leave me behind.”

“Darling, I would never.” He envelops her in a hug and she clings to him.

They spend the rest of the night dozing by Yennefer’s bedside as Geralt prepares rooms for all of them.

* * *

Yennefer wakes up on the evening of the second day just as Jaskier is about to leave for dinner. She gasps awake, sitting upright and looking around frantically.

“Julian,” She reaches out and he finds his way back to her bedside.

“Yen, shit.” He quickly but carefully starts unwrapping her hands. “You’re alright, Gods, you’re fine.”

“What happened?” She croaks and he turns to the door.

“Geralt, get some water for up here!” He yells, knowing that the Witcher will hear. He turns back to the task and watches as the skin of her hands gets revealed slowly. Her palms seem to have healed fine, no trace that there was anything wrong with them in the first place. “Oh, that’s good.” He breathes out.

“What?” She tries again, blinking at him rapidly, the black around her eyes smeared slightly.

“There were blisters, nasty and painful-looking. Geralt applied some healing salve to them and to the stab wound in your stomach.” He explains, pointing to where the other wound used to be.

She clutches at the ripped fabric, paling momentarily before shaking her head frantically. “How did I get here, I shouldn’t – I shouldn’t be alive.”

He shrugs, “I don’t know. You were literally dropped from the sky and onto me. Said _I found you_ before you passed out.” He rubs the skin of her knuckles gently. “Yen… what happened?”

She shakes her head again, mouth clamped shut. “I – I can’t.”

“It’s fine, you know? You don’t have to tell me, any of us. Not now and not ever. Just know that we’re glad you’re okay.” He smiles and she cups his cheek.

“You’re too good to me, Jules.” She lies back down as they wait for Geralt to arrive with the water.

Once the Witcher comes to deliver the asked, he looks between them almost uncertainly. Jaskier rolls his eyes and releases Yen’s hand to accept the water.

“Come on, drink and then we can move you to your room.” He pours the water out of the clay pitcher into a small metal cup and she gulps it down haphazardly.

After she’s done, she allows Jaskier to scoop her up into a bridal carry, grinning like a loon the entire time he carries her up the stone steps. He rolls his eyes as she makes faces at Geralt who’s climbing behind them.

“Ciri’s on the floor above you and above her is the library. The last room is mine and Jaskier’s.” Geralt says and Jaskier almost falters at that. He wasn’t aware that they were… _sharing._

“The other intact towers and parts of the keep are usually reserved for the Witchers that come through here on occasion. This tower was mine alone.” Geralt explains as if sensing the questions that they haven’t asked but wanted to.

They come up on the door and Geralt opens it, letting Jaskier bring Yennefer in. He walks over and puts her down onto the large bed gently.

“Do you need anything? Are you hungry? More water?” He flits around the room, checking if there’s anything she could possibly require.

She chuckles, “No, lark, I’ll be alright. Leave the water but other than that, I just need a good night’s sleep.”

“Right, good, we’ll leave you to it, then.” He sighs, feeling the huge weight of everything lifting from his shoulders slowly. “Night, Yen.”

“Good night, you two.” She waves them off.

“Hm,” Geralt nods and steers him out of the room once it becomes clear that Jaskier’s legs aren’t budging and that he’s incapable of moving.

“Where’s Ciri?” He asks once they’re alone again.

“She’s gone to bed. I think that the rough travelling style had tired her out. It must be catching up to her.” Geralt stops him from going in and checking on her once the spiraling tower’s steps reach the second door.

“She’s fine.” Geralt groans, herding him further up and Jaskier realizes that there’s no way that he’ll be able to sleep. He’s past the stage where he’s sleepy. His entire body is buzzing with unreleased energy, pent up aggression and the urge to either fight or fuck. Maybe he can get Geralt to spar with him.

“In you go.” Geralt opens the door to their room and nudges Jaskier inside, letting the creaky wood slam closed.

“Gods, it’s – I don’t think I can sleep. I know I can’t sleep. Fuck, there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep. I wish I had my lute, if I could strum something together it would help. Do they have instruments here? Other than those of death, of course. Ha!” He shivers, walks over to the hearth – the nights are cold up in the mountains, even colder than the days. He paces the length of it and watches the fire burn brightly. On his next turn he runs into Geralt’s wide chest, swaying on his feet he steadies himself on the other’s shoulders.

“What?” He snaps, and Geralt shakes his head.

The Witcher then brings his hands up and starts undoing the many buttons that keep Jaskier’s coat closed. He watches, momentarily stunned as the coat falls to the ground.

“What?” He asks again, a little gentler this time.

“You spent the past week taking care of everyone. Let me take care of you. There’s a bath ready, you can relax now, Jaskier. We’re safe here.” Geralt then does the unthinkable and tucks a stray lock of his hair behind his ear, all gentle like and sweet and Jaskier fears that he might just melt into a puddle.

 _This is absurd_ , he thinks as Geralt continues to divest him of his clothes, _it should be the other way around._ Thankfully, Geralt backs off once he’s in his undergarments but the Witcher _does_ steer him closer to the sweet-smelling, _warm_ bath.

“Oh,” He breathes, “ _Oh, yes._ ” He groans, dropping his breeches and swiftly undoing the clasps of his bracer, letting it clatter to the ground before he’s practically jumping into the wooden bath. He submerges himself in the hot water fully, letting all of the sounds filter out until there’s only his own heartbeat in his ears left. A hand reaches for him and he resurfaces.

“Hm?” He blinks, feeling nice and relaxed for the first time in a while.

“Come on,” Geralt turns him around in the bath and starts the process of washing his hair for him – something Jaskier would on the rare occasion do for the other while they were travelling. He practically purrs at how good it feels and if he weren’t so tired, his dick would probably be plenty interested in these happenings.

“You’ve got more scars than I thought you’d have.” Geralt says after a while, running his thumb over the crest of Jaskier’s shoulder where a prominently pale one lies.

“I’ve seen a knife fight once.” He hums as Geralt chuckles. The Witcher’s hands then dig into his back and Jaskier moans embarrassingly, the tense muscles there giving under the pressure of Geralt’s strong grip.

“That’s it,” Geralt rumbles pleasantly as Jaskier’s muscles start giving out and the sleep he’s been so sure would avoid him starts coming back tenfold.

He’s pretty sure he _does_ fall asleep at some point because the next thing he knows is that he’s blinking his eyes open as the covers get tugged over his bare body by the large Witcher. He doesn’t dwell on it and lets the sleep consume him instead.

When he wakes, the sun is barely breaking the line of the horizon and Geralt is sitting cross-legged in front of the large window that leads to the balcony. He watches the Witcher’s wide shoulders rise and fall and decides that this is where he risks it all.

He sits, letting the sheets fall from his frame and then stands. He pads over to the Witcher’s mighty figure and pauses next to him, watching the sun rise. He feels rested even though he knows it hasn’t really been that long. It must be that sense of security that he feels, the knowledge that even if this place isn’t safe it will be alright because he has almost all of the people he cares about the most nearby.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt speaks suddenly and unexpectedly.

Jaskier glances down at him curiously, “What for?”

“For sending you away.” Geralt stands smoothly and just like that, they’re chest-to-chest but with Jaskier’s being noticeably more bare. “Back at the mountains. I was angry and bitter and you didn’t deserve that.”

“Wow, that punch to the throat really knocked some sense into you, huh?” He laughs, tries to make the appropriate joke and falls short when Geralt remains stoic and determined to have this conversation now. At the break of dawn. While Jaskier is naked. And Geralt is most decidedly _not._

“I deserved it. I deserved the punch. I deserved you taking Roach even if it pained me. And I deserved both of you leaving me to my own misery.” Geralt hangs his head, a small smile tilting the corners of his lips up.

“Yes, well. I suppose you’ve learned your lesson, then.” He crosses his arms over his chest, mostly to give himself some coverage. _This was a stupid idea,_ his brain informs him.

“Oh, yes.” Geralt’s hand comes up slowly, cupping the side of his face and tilting his head up. “Thrice over. Never cross witches and assassins lest they conspire against you and decide to ruin your life.”

He snorts, leaning into the touch. “We’d hardly done anything.”

“It hurt, did you know?” Geralt asks. “Seeing you two being so close and seeing how much better she’s for you than I ever will be.”

Oh. _Oh._ Well isn’t that a pleasant reversal.

He laughs because this is _hysterical._ He doesn’t mean to but it leaves his body high and reedy, frantic and stuttery. “Oh, Geralt!” He mimics the other and cups the Witcher’s cheek. “Of course I know!” Geralt’s face scrunches up in confusion.

“What? You think that this,” He points between the two of them with a finger. “Is something you’re just discovering? Oh, Geralt, darling. You big, gorgeous, idiot! I’m sorry. I really am but.” He sobers up, shaking his head. “I’ve had to watch you and Yen meet again and again for _years_. And each and every time I’d think: _oh, this is better. She’s right for him. They’re destined to be together._ ”

“Jaskier.”

“No, shut up.” He growls lowly, leaning further into the other’s space. “This isn’t new, Geralt. This is you finally catching up to what I’ve been going through for _years._ And I never held it against her. How could I have? You were both two lonely, powerful people looking for someone that would make you feel something. And I was a bard, the lark on your shoulder, the pain in your lovely arse. I’ve never had anything against love, Geralt.”

“How long?” Geralt grunts, grip turning firm.

“Mm,” He raises his eyes towards the high ceiling and the rafters of the keep, grinning. “Somewhere between Ban Gleann and Cintra.”

“Jakier.” Geralt growls, nudging closer.

“I never wanted anything out of you, dear Witcher. I never expected anything but your company. I do not know why it took so long for this to get through your thick skull.” He tugs out of the other’s hold. Grinning to himself as he hears Geralt rumble a complaint.

“When you – when you said you didn’t need me.” Geralt swallows audibly. “When you proved just how little you really needed me – that’s when I realizes just how much I needed you instead. How reversed our situations truly were.”

He hums a tune, lilting and teasing as he sways his hips. “Oh, Geralt.” He throws the other a glance over his shoulder. “Music to my ears.”

“ _Julian_ ,” Geralt steps forward and Jaskier slants his eyes menacingly, stopping the Witcher in his steps.

“Sing for me, Witcher. If you want me to dance, you have to sing for me.” He runs his left hand up his thigh, pressing it into one of the strap bruises and humming pleasantly.

“I was lost for days after.” Geralt’s voice is as rough as gravel and Jaskier shivers at the tone. “I didn’t know what to do, where to go. Came upon some tavern in the town at the bottom of the mountains and got pissed like a bastard.”

He grins, walking towards the hearth intently, stepping onto the bearskin rug there. He basks in the warmth as Geralt continues shuffling forward, unsure like a fawn taking its first steps.

“Heard someone sing one of your songs, almost smashed their fuckin’ lute over their head for sullying your words like that.” Geralt spills his guts like a man put on trial and Jaskier thrives under the reassurance that his absence was greatly felt.

“Never once got a new horse. Walked for days, weeks, months. Accepted my penance for what it was.” Geralt kneels down at the edge of the rug, hands folded neatly onto his thighs. Jaskier resumes his swaying, left to right, hips and ass flowing smoothly to the tune only he can hear as Geralt speaks more than he has ever spoken before.

“Each day was hollow.” Geralt growls. “Silence became… _shitty._ The days grew longer and the coin dried up quicker.” The Witcher chuckles. “I almost died a month and a half ago.”

He stops, turns around with his hands on his hips. “What.”

“I got careless. It was – an anniversary. Thirteen years to date from the Cintra ordeal. Got drunk again, accepted a job I shouldn’t have.” Geralt shakes his head. “I’m sorry. Words cannot express the amount of grief I’ve felt ever since you left. The emptiness, the void that nothing else can fill.”

He relaxes again, stance becoming less severe and loosening anew. Alright, back to his planned seduction.

“Have you tried?”

“Yes,” Geralt admits with a pained grimace. “No amount of women or pretty men could even compare. Nobody even came close.”

He smiles at the thought of Geralt fucking his way through the Continent looking for a replacement, someone to fill the space that Jaskier had once occupied. To find a pathetic enough soul that could put up with his sorry arse. Nobody is more pathetic than Jaskier – or, well, more pathetically in love with Geralt than Jaskier.

He runs a hand up from his hip across his torso and one of his nipples until it comes to linger at his throat and Geralt watches, enraptured. The rapt attention makes his cock twitch in interest.

“Every time I caught a trace of your scent I’d follow it like a bloodhound until it eventually lead to a dead end. I could never find out how or why. But it left me aching, in more ways than one.” Geralt’s eyes glint as he cups himself through his leather trousers.

“Hn,” He grunts, bringing the hand back down to thumb over his own nipple teasingly.

“When I saw you appear in the tower, when I saw you fight for the first time, when I saw you take down guard after guard with such ease that it seemed like you were dancing rather than fighting.” Geralt’s eyelashes flutter briefly as he remembers. “I wanted to pin you to the nearest wall and break it with how hard I’d fuck you into it.”

“Oh, yes.” He sighs, using his other hand to grip his half-hard cock and give it a hearty stroke.

“And then it was fine for a while. I’d accepted that the mission came before everything else. I could live with that.” Geralt’s voice lowers to another register entirely and Jaskier’s spine ripples with it. “And then you and _her_ and it kept being _you and her_ and I’d never been more confused. I wanted to let it go but it had taken me too long to realize what I felt had always been for you and not her – it had taken too long to identify the jealousy for me to let it go like that.”

“You say it hurt,” He strokes himself to full hardness slowly, spitting into his hand to ease the way. “How badly did it hurt, Geralt? Did it burn deep inside? Did it consume you until you couldn’t breathe?”

“ _Yes,”_ Geralt pitches forward a little, the hands on his knees spasming with the strain of remaining still. “It carved its way from my gut until all I could do was growl like man possessed, like a beast.”

“My White Wolf,” He chuckles, moaning as he thumbs over the head of his hardness. “My beautiful, dumb, beast. There’s no one out there like you, no one other that could make me forgive so easily.”

“I don’t deserve it.” Geralt _honest-to-Gods_ whines.

“Perhaps.” He grins, feeling light and powerful with Geralt on his knees for him. “But you’re my Witcher, my muse, my beloved Butcher, slayer of beasts. I think it’d always find it in my heart to forgive you.” He steps forward to stand closer to the other. He grips Geralt’s jaw harshly. “I may be forgiving, my sweet, but it doesn’t mean that I’ll stay the next time something like that happens.”

“No,” Geralt’s eyes glint. “There won’t be a next time. It’s you and me, I promise.”

“Good,” He smiles, pleased. He thumbs the other’s mouth, allows his finger to dip inside and Geralt lets him. He presses the pad of it against the Witcher’s tongue, opening his mouth wider. “Be a good boy, Geralt, will you?” His other hand grips his cock, bringing it close to the other’s mouth and Geralt’s eyes grow wide, pupils dilating and rounding out.

“Hn,” Geralt’s grunt is needy this time, eyelids lowering attractively.

He takes it as a go-ahead and he presses the head of his hard length against the other’s lower lip. A warm tongue pushes his thumb out of Geralt’s mouth and then the other is tasting him for the first time. He closes his eyes, throwing his head back as Geralt pushes down further, taking his entire head into his mouth and lavishing it with attention.

“Oh, beautiful.” He purrs, bringing a hand to grip Geralt’s long strands tightly. He takes over and with controlled movements of his hips, he thrusts into the other mouth. Geralt’s hands remain down in his lap and Jaskier thinks that the Witcher is remarkably well-behaved.

“You love this, don’t you?” He shuffles a little, twitching his hips deeper, bringing Geralt’s nose closer to his skin as the Witcher hums. “Oh, how I’ve wanted to do this for so long, Geralt.” He chuckles and starts gradually speeding up his movements. It feels amazing. The other’s mouth is warm and wet, _pliant_.

“Wanted to shove my cock deep into your throat to see if you could growl and grunt around it.” He chuckles and Geralt’s eyes meet his before the other lets a low growl loose and Jaskier’s entire body twitches as he moans. “Oh, _yes.”_ He shivers, toes curling as Geralt pushes further until his nose is buried in the hair at the base of his cock.

“Look at you, fuck. So eager for it. _Gagging_ for it, ha.” He chuckles, ass clenching as Geralt finally allows himself to reach out and touch. The Witcher starts slowly, gripping his ankles and working his way upwards, pushing his thumbs into old bruises and digging new ones into his hips when he reaches them. He holds on for dear life as Geralt swallows around him and moans low in his throat.

“Good, so good.” He whines, hips twitching on his own accord. The noises leaving Geralt are sloppy and he’d be cringing if he weren’t the one getting his cock wet at the moment.

All too soon, he feels the heat coiling in his belly and he knows that if he finishes now, he’ll be out cold in a matter of moments with how tired he still is.

He tugs at the other’s hair sharply, pulling until Geralt’s off his length and panting like he’d just climbed a mountain not sucked a cock.

“Jaskier,” And _oh,_ Geralt’s voice is positively _ruined._

“Silence.” He orders, watching as the other’s mouth slams shut at the command. “Go find some oil and then undress. After you’re naked, you’re allowed to return to me here.” He waves the Witcher off cheerily and watches as Geralt gets up with some difficulty. The Witcher rummages through some of the compartments in the old chest that’s sitting in the corner of the room until he finds what he’s looking for. He lets himself watch as Geralt strips, quick and efficient, the power barely contained in his tightly-wound frame. Oh how he can’t wait to have it unleashed onto him.

His gaze drops to Geralt’s cock the moment the Witcher turns around. He’s seen it before, Geralt wasn’t exactly shy, but never this painfully hard and glistening at the tip. He wants to taste but he knows that if he got his mouth on the other that he wouldn’t stop and he’s not in the mood to be testing the Witcher’s stamina tonight. He moans, though, as Geralt strides towards him powerfully with the oil clutched in his hand.

“Down,” He orders before Geralt can reach out for him. The Witcher drops to his knees again like it’s second nature and Jaskier wonders if he finds pleasure in being ordered about or if he’s doing it because he knows that it pleases _him._ Either way, he looks glorious so obedient and Jaskier will push this to the limit.

He settles himself onto the other’s thighs, their hard cocks brushing just barely. He’s once again tempted to get a hand around Geralt but he doesn’t want to give the other anything until he’s deserved it.

“Open me up,” He demands. “Tell me how much you want me. Earn me.”

Geralt’s face pitches forward until it’s buried in the crook of his neck and he allows the contact up until Geralt takes a nice hearty bite and Jaskier keens, cock jumping as the pleasure surges through him. He grips the back of the other’s head, tugging him away and tutting.

“That wasn’t very nice, Geralt.” He scolds, watching as Geralt’s eyes barely stray away from the bite he’d left on Jaskier’s skin. It’s possessive and predatory and it _does_ strike a nice little cord inside him that sends his body humming but he’s not about to admit that. “Look at me when I’m speaking, Witcher.” He growls and Geralt’s eyes snap to his, wide and alarmed.

“What was that?” He hisses.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt’s shoulders slump, looking like he’s just come out of a fever dream. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again. Not unless you ask.”

“That’s mistake number one, Geralt. Two more and you don’t get me tonight. You go to bed unsatisfied while I pleasure myself just out of reach.” He warns and Geralt whines again, hands limp at his sides like he’s afraid to touch. “Understood?”

“Yes.” The other nods seriously and Jaskier wonders if he’s ever had someone talking to him like this, demanding and controlling. He wonders if this is Geralt’s first time trying to be good.

“I’ll let you off easy this time only, my sweet Wolf.” He strokes a hand gently down the side of the Witcher’s face and Geralt all but purrs like a kitten.

“Now, what did I ask for?” He pokes the tip of the other’s nose with his finger and Geralt nods his head.

“Open you up, earn you.” Geralt grinds out, a frown marring his features.

“That’s right. Be good.” He reminds and watches as the other opens the bottle of oil up.

“Want you,” Geralt grunts, reaching behind and running his middle finger down and between his cheeks. He shivers, pushing into the touch. “Want you so much. On every surface. All the time. Mine.”

The words are clear but disjointed, Geralt seems to be beyond stringing together words to make full sentences and it’s somehow endearing despite it all. He grips the other’s shoulders waiting for the opportunity to finally kiss the Witcher.

The first finger breaches him and he hisses. It’s been a while since he’s done this but he knows that he’s not patient enough to wait until it doesn’t hurt. He pushes back and Geralt pushes in. He rocks his hips and moans.

“That’s good, love, that’s amazing.” He connects their foreheads and breathes in until their combined scents are all that he can smell.

“Beautiful.” Geralt growls, pouring more oil and adding a second finger into the mix. “Infuriating but so beautiful. My pretty little songbird. Deadly little Kestel.”

“Geralt,” He breathes heavily, pleasure tingling up his spine as Geralt moves his fingers inside of him. “Bastard, harder.” He grunts, trying to speed up his hips but Geralt remains infuriatingly unmoved.

“Fuck you,” He grunts and slams his mouth over the other’s, surprising him into going lax and then he speeds his hips up freely, getting the fingers in deeper until he’s moaning into the Witcher’s mouth. Geralt grunts, gripping the nape of his neck with a large hand and regrettably slows the kiss down into something sweet and gentle.

“Geralt,” He warns and Geralt bats his eyelashes at him.

“Please,” The Witcher pleads, “Allow me this.”

And how is he supposed to say no? He sighs and kisses the other again, gentle and tender and all of the other sappy words. He allows the other the freedom to go at his own pace – no matter how slow.

Eventually, though, he gets impatient. And when Geralt has three of his thick fingers comfortably pushing in and out of him at a steady pace he pulls back.

“On your back.” He arranges the Witcher in front of the hearth, with his back on the bearskin and his knees bent. He straddles the other’s abdomen and roams the expanse of his scar-laden chest. “Oh, the sight you make, Geralt.”

“It’s rather nice from down here, too.” The Witcher grins and Jaskier laughs easily, chest filling to the brim with the amount of love he feels for the damned idiot.

“Hush,” He presses a lingering kiss to the other’s mouth and then scoots back, lifting to his knees until he’s hovering over the other’s length. He holds the considerable girth in his hand for the first time and then lowers himself down slowly. It takes a fair bit of time but his hard length doesn’t falter and neither does Geralt’s steely muscle control over his hips. A lesser man would have already tried to twitch upwards into the welcoming warmth but not Geralt.

He pants, palms grasping at Geralt’s chest as he steadies himself. “Gods, Geralt, the cock on you.” His laugh is choked as the said cock twitches inside him. He grins down at the Witcher whose cheeks are rosy and whose hair is matted to his forehead. He’s beautiful without even being aware of it.

“More like the cock in you.” The Witcher returns and Jaskier pitches forward, entire frame relaxing as laughter ripples through him in cheeky giggles.

“Oh, whoever said you weren’t funny has never had your cock in them.” He grins and Geralt’s nose scrunches up.

“That sounds like an insult.” The Witcher points out and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“You know what I meant.” He leans down and rises off the length in him a little. He kisses Geralt and moves back down, feeling the moan that leaves the other. He rises again and falls back down just as slowly. He bends, arching his back and letting out a moan of his own as he lets himself feel just how full of cock he is.

“Fuck, that’s amazing. Beautiful. Stupendous. Marvelous. I am going to write so many ballads about this.” He promises as Geralt’s hands grip his hips again.

“Please,” Geralt’s head thumps against the ground and he clenches around the Witcher’s length.

“Have you earned it?” He teases, prepared to give in even if Geralt hasn’t.

“I don’t know.” The other whines, fingers twitching. “Please.”

“Oh, so sweet.” He croons, forcing Geralt’s knees down until his legs are flat against the ground and he can support himself on them. “You’ve earned it, love. Don’t worry.”

And then he starts moving. He tests his own limits, his own stamina and his bendiness as he rides the Witcher’s hard length. He undulates, bounces and grinds in intervals, driving Geralt mad with lust and want.

The third time he denies the Witcher, and by extension himself, a climax the Witcher growls so hard that Jaskier feels it travel up the other’s cock and onto him and he almost loses it right there and then.

“Had enough? Want to tah-take over? Fuck,” He whines, hating himself for prolonging the pain to put his own little sadistic heart at ease.

“Please,” Geralt whines pathetically and Jaskier eases himself off. It takes but a scant second for Geralt to have him with his face buried in the furs and his cock back in his ass.

“Oh, fuck!” He exclaims, wholly unprepared for the brute strength of the other’s hips as they slam into him. The sound of skin on skin fills the room and Jaskier’s moans are reedy and whiny as Geralt fucks him into the ground. His cock leaks freely onto the fur underneath him and Geralt has one hand planted at his lower back, the other on his shoulder and using the grip to pull him into his thrusts.

He feels himself being tugged up and then the one of the other’s arms is around his chest, palm spreading over his throat, the other arm is anchored at his hip as Geralt continues with his brutal pace.

He drops his head back onto the other’s shoulder and Geralt pants into the side of his neck, nose pressed there and teeth bared against skin.

“Do it,” He urges, “Bite me. Come on.”

Geralt’s teeth sink into his skin hard enough to send him reeling, another growl rumbling out of the other’s chest that he can feel against his back this time. He moans, coming just like that as Geralt keeps hitting that spot inside him that brings him so much pleasure.

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunts and it’s too much, really, but Jaskier doesn’t move. He clenches around the other’s length as Geralt chases his own climax and stutters out a weak moan as Geralt finally finds his pleasure with a deep and satisfied groan.

“Fuck, _fuck.”_ He whines, still shivering from the aftershock even in front of the blazing fire.

“You alright?” Geralt pets his large palms across his front and Jaskier nods.

“Gods, just get me into bed and fill the bath in another couple of hours. I’m so fucking tired.” He admits and Geralt chuckles, trailing sweet kisses along his shoulders as he pulls out slowly.

He winces at the loss and accepts Geralt’s help when he offers. He gets to his feet unsteadily, wrinkling his nose at the mess on the furs and then cringing as Geralt’s spend starts making its way out of him. He almost makes it to the bed before he hears Geralt’s heavy footsteps behind him.

“Fuck,” Geralt grunts Jaskier finds himself bent over the edge of the bed with Geralt’s face buried between his cheeks, licking out what he’d left there. He’s pretty certain that his mind had up and quit on him for a couple of minutes there because the moment he comes back to himself, Geralt’s already cleaned him out in the filthiest way possible and tucked him back into bed.

“You’re a bastard,” He grunts, turning away when Geralt tries to kiss him. “That’s disgusting. Go away.”

“Julian,” Geralt whine and – and that’s just not fair.

He tries not to think about it as he kisses Geralt and ignores the _taste_ altogether in favor of having the other’s lips on his.

“Sleep, Jaskier. You need it.” Geralt pets his hair like he’s a small kitten to be coddled.

“Come to bed. I like cuddling after sex.” He demands petulantly and Geralt rolls his eyes but obliges.

And soon, Jaskier finds himself caged between the other’s large arms, safe and secure.

“I’m glad you came to your senses.” He hums, tracing his fingers lightly over the scars on the other’s chest.

“I’m glad you punched me in the throat.” Geralt rumbles back and Jaskier smirks.

“I did it out of love, don’t worry.” He snaps his trap shut, eyes wide and heat coloring his cheeks. _Well, there goes that._

Geralt just smiles, though, pleased and sated. “I love you, too.”

“Sap,” He grumbles, nosing along the other’s jaw until he finds a place to nestle into that happens to be the hollow of the other’s throat.

“Wake me up in a couple of hours.” He yawns, drifting off finally, with Geralt’s slow heart beats so close to his ear and his huffed breaths as a lullaby.

* * *

He wakes up sometime around midday, no Geralt in sight but a familiar looking eagle perched on the balcony. His heart stutters as he finds a shirt to tug on that just happens to be Geralt.

He opens the doors to the balcony and approaches Aerest’s eagle. “Hey there, pretty bird. How’ve you been you old bastard?” He runs a finger along Kamov’s little bird head and plucks out the rolled up letter from the carrier strapped to the bird’s back.

He dreads opening it but he has to. He unrolls the parchment and breathes out steadily. It’s from his brother. Predictably, the armies at Sodden were defeated with relative ease and a _great sacrifice_ from Yennefer (he raises an eyebrow at that one). His mother and brother are okay but his grandfather had sustained an injury that could put him out of commission for a while. He breathes out a snort as he imagines the old man protesting vehemently at staying still for longer than an hour at a time.

He takes his time to write back, mentioning that Yennefer is fine and that they’ve settled at Kaer Morhen nicely. He sends his well wishes and kindest regards, giving Kamov one last pat on the head and shooing him away.

He looks down to the side as the bird leaves and notices Geralt and Ciri in the courtyard. She’s holding a wooden sword in front of a practice dummy uncertainly like she’d first held one of his daggers. Geralt is explaining something to her patiently and she’s nodding. Her hair is braided at the back of her hair and the clothes she’s wearing are that of a warrior in training rather than a princess. Yennefer is reclining on one of the benches nearby, enjoying the sun shining down on them and he snorts, imagining her as a lazy black cat.

As if sensing his mockery she looks up, meeting his eyes dead on even from the distance. She quirks an eyebrow and nods her head in the direction of the Witcher.

Jaskier blushes looking down at himself and realizing that the bite marks and the bruises are all very visible with how wide the opening of Geralt’s shirt is. He shrugs and she grins. His eyes are then drawn to the Witcher in question who’s already staring at him, something akin to hunger in those pools of gold.

He gulps, thinking about what happened and what will continue to happen-

_Smack._

“Pay attention!” Ciri’s voice cuts through the air as Geralt grips his knee where she’d hit him with the sword.

He laughs, loud and unrestrained and so does Yennefer. For the first time in forever, Jaskier thinks that he’s found his home away from home. That he’s find a group of people so out of place everywhere else and made them his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Hope you all enjoyed me rewriting canon to fit my needs and own personal heacanons. I've written Jaskier and Yen as close friends because i firmly believe that they would be besties. And the show did her dirty, she's great.  
> Y'all can always find me on tumblr and twitter @marionettefthjm where i'll be available up until *checks time* 5 am  
> Feel free to check out the other works ive written and let me know what you think!  
> Also ive just realized that ive probably written Ciri as a little younger personality-wise but given the circumstances and her not having to have had the whole fending for urself part of the story i think it should be fine  
> And i dont know how children work im 23

**Author's Note:**

> as always find me on tumblr and twitter @marionettefthjm


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